


Tangled Threads and Heartstrings

by Butterbaby_Flapjack



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Dark Souls II, Dark Souls III
Genre: Anal Sex, Armor Kink, Banter, Bondage, But also a face-melting lack of slow burns, Coaxing, Creampie, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hate Sex, Kidnapping, Lautrec & Patches wombo combo, Magic, Master/Pet, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-con to Con, Okay fine it's mostly slow burns - I can't help myself ok?!?!?, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Punishment, Reader is kind of a sassy little shit, Reader-Insert, Revenge, Romantic Fluff, Rough Sex, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Size Difference, Snark, Sneakiness, Spanking, Swordplay, Threesome - F/M/M, Touch-Starved, Tragic Romance, Voice Kink, Wayward and Noble Knights, Yandere, duels, slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 86,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterbaby_Flapjack/pseuds/Butterbaby_Flapjack
Summary: I'm writing a book with not nearly enough smut, and in the meantime writing shameless amounts of Dark Souls smut to get it all out of my system here. Mostly its just you as a reader galivanting in a lascivious sex parade throughout all the Dark Souls games.★( Reader x Character short stories )★If you have any character requests, just say so in the comments!Now featuring 'The Cleric' arc, wherein you're a cleric who is kidnapped by Patches and sold into slavery.Now featuring the Artorias storyline, wherein enemy-to-lover Artorias and you must work together to save Oolacile from awakening the abyss.Soonishly featuring 'The Age of Gods' arc, which includes a love triangle between you, Nameless King, and Ornstein
Relationships: Abyss Watchers/Ashen One (Dark Souls), Artorias the Abysswalker/Reader, Ashen One/Faraam (Dark Souls), Ashen One/Orbeck of Vinheim, Ashen One/Ringfinger Leonhard, Ashen One/Sir Vilhelm (Dark Souls), Black Iron Tarkus/You, Chosen Undead/Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Chosen Undead/Lautrec of Carim, Chosen Undead/Shiva's bodyguard (Dark Souls), Chosen Undead/Solaire of Astora, Chosen Undead/Unbreakable Patches (Dark Souls), Creighton the Wanderer/You, Dragon Slayer Ornstein/Reader, Eygon of Carim/Reader, Lautrec of Carim/Reader, Solaire of Astora/Reader, The Bearer of the Curse/Creighton the Wanderer, The Bearer of the Curse/Mild-Mannered Pate, Yhorm the Giant/Reader
Comments: 203
Kudos: 174





	1. Ringfinger Leonhard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'ma be honest with you. I have half a mind to simply delete this chapter, seeing as how its the weakest one. But.... its like... the little baby beginning chapter, and I can't quite bring myself to do it haha.

**♡And the first sacrifice to my shameless smut machine shall be... Ringfinger Leonhard♡**

* * *

You see him leaning there, arms crossed with leisure across his sturdy chest. The forest green cowl across his shoulders makes him appear broader than he already is, intimidatingly so. And that silver mask of his… its shape hammered smooth, yet marred by the savagery of battle and time - the eyes of it black, hiding the shape and color of the knight of Rosaria’s actual gaze.

A gaze you feel lingering over you, despite not being able to see past that mask. You’d heard he never removed the thing, for it covered a litany of scars. He’d been horridly burned over his entire body; or so the rumors said. That mask might as well be his face - it was the one he’d chosen, seeing as how he could have beseeched Rosaria to heal his scarred body through her magic of rebirth.

But he did not ask her for such a thing, for reasons unknown. He chose that silver face instead, to wear it and make it his own, shadowed by the leather tricorn hat atop it.

“Ah-hah,” he says, his low voice curling itself around you. It's both a pleasant and unnerving voice, one you crave to listen to about as much as its inflections make you distrustful of the strange man. “You’ve found a proper red eye…” and though he sounds somewhat impressed, he makes no move to straighten his relaxed composure in his regard as you approach.

You grasp the thing in one bare hand, holding it out like a red apple - one you hope he’ll provide a bit more knowledge on. “You could have warned me regarding the Darkwraith,” you say, forcing yourself to frown past your nerves. 

“I believe I mentioned its imprisonment in that cell,” Leonhard returns coolly. “Is that not warning enough for you?”

“You made it sound like it might be weakened by its time locked down there,” you argue, coming to stand before him with the red eye orb cupped in your palm. You almost feel like chucking it at his head, as you continue in a growl, “It nearly cleaved my head from my shoulders.”

“Perhaps you ought to find yourself some better armor, then,” Leonhard muses. He looks you up and down, his black gaze hidden, and yet you feel his eyes trailing over every inch of you. “You’ve nothing but a sorcerer's cloak and skirt on, my dear. And you’re a weak, skinny thing besides. I’m surprised you’ve managed this long with a head. Still,” he sounds like he might be smiling - probably in response to the open scowl you wear in response to his taunting. “You’ve managed to survive this long. I knew you were no ordinary woman.”

He gives a few, leather-gloved claps to emphasize just how sarcastic he's being, the silver gauntlet on one hand rattling with it.

Your teeth grind with the effort not to direct a soul arrow directly through his heart - assuming he even has one hidden beneath that heavyset, gold-laced gambeson of his, the length of which brushes his knees. You instead bite back your scowl, a question lifting one brow. “I’m so happy to have impressed you, Leonhard,” you drawl with as much sarcasm as he gave you, before thrusting the orb with a bit more purpose in his direction. “Now what do I do with this bloody thing?”

“Why, you invade and pillage all you like,” he tells you. “I almost didn’t think you the type to become a finger - you seemed far too noble - but, here you are. A most pleasant surprise, to be sure.”

You can no longer tell whether he's being sarcastic or not, and you eye him as such. “Right…” you say a bit dubiously. You pocket the red eye orb within your sorcerer's robe, your eyes never leaving him. You aren't entirely sure you can trust him not to attack you or something, even within the boundaries of Firelink. “I have no problem pillaging other worlds. The way I see it, if I manage to defeat another world’s master, their weakness is to my benefit - and besides, it’s a learning experience for them, is it not? In a way, I’m helping them improve themselves through the tribulations of battle.”

“Sugarcoat it all you like, darling,” he says with growing amusement. “You’ve a wicked spirit, just like me, no matter what pretty words you use to describe it. If you didn’t invade, didn’t pillage, whatever would you do?”

You frown at him. “Well I wouldn’t bother myself with the displeasure of your conversations, surely.”

He laughs, its sound muted behind his silver mask. “Ah, how you taunt me, little ashen one. I will make you pay for that at some point. And now that you have the orb, will you give yourself to Rosaria, then?”

“I’m not entirely sure what that even means,” you admit, wondering if you're a fool for doing so. “So it's unlikely.”

“Good.”

“Good?” 

You weren’t expecting that response, but he seems unaffected by your visible confusion. He pushes off the giant, stone throne he leaned casually against, walking past you as he motions for you to follow. “Come, ashen one. I wish to discuss something more with you, but not by the warmth of Firelink.”

Your gaze follows after him, even as your feet remain stubbornly in place. This feels like a trap… what could he possibly need to discuss away from the safety of Firelink Shrine? And yet your curiosity isn't very well going to let you stand here all day and not find out.

And so you follow him as he leads you out through the stone-masoned columns of the shrine, his boots crunching into the earth as he wanders out and along the side of it, up a winding stone stairway and into the shadow beneath a towering, giant-shaped tree.

“Leonhard, what are you–”

No sooner had the words left your lips had he abruptly withdrawn his weapon, a treacherous length of curved blade imbued with moonlight magic. “Well,” he laughs as he holds it before him, its sharpness glinting in the light. “That was rather easy, wasn’t it?” He laughs again as you absently finger for your staff - only it isn't at your waist, and you curse yourself for leaving it back at the Shrine. 

_You fucking idiot, now you’re going to get yourself killed! And by this faceless bastard, no less! You’re pathetic, you’re–_

“Curiosity is a vicious thing, isn’t it?” Leonhard cuts off your thoughts with an obvious smirk, one you didn't have to see because you can hear it curving his words. He motions for you to approach him with a single, crooked finger, like you're some kind of dog. “Come. Let us duel one another, for I would claim victory over you, as well as a reward.”

You may not have your staff, but you do have a small dagger clasped to one thigh, and you brandish it now in open defiance. “I won’t fight you ill-prepared like this. So tell me what you wished to discuss, if you wished to discuss anything at all, or I’m leaving - and if you try to stop me, I’ll plunge this into your throat.”

“Will you?” he questions with darkened mirth. “You’ll try, surely. Go on, then.” He opens his arms in broad invitation, his crescent moon sword seemingly forgotten, though it remains in one large, gloved hand. “I’ll give you one attempt to sink that tiny blade wherever you like, and when you fail I intend to have my way with you.”

“Wh-what?!” you stammer, your grip around the hilt of your small dagger faltering.

He laughs as your eyes shoot wide. “I’ve grown fond of our time together, little ashen one,” he broods, his voice teasing - and yet there's a depth of hunger to it. “Your resistance to the darker inclinations of your spirit have amused me for a time, but now I wish to shatter even the _thought_ of denying what you really are. You pretend to be this hero of virtue who will through the simple goodness of your lordly countenance return the five Lords of Cinder to their thrones, and yet I know better. You do so for your own gain and betterment alone. You’re as immoral and selfish as I am.”

“I’m not like you,” you argue, your jaw squaring with resolve. “You’ve not a shred of honor, and what you’re attempting to do now just proves that!”

“Don’t worry, darling - I intend to prove to you just how depraved you really are.” He laughs again as you begin shaking with anger and, though you hate to admit it, fear. This man is both a powerful mage and warrior, after all, and you’ve barely started your journey in this land. He’d called you weak; well… he wasn’t exactly far from the truth in his assessment. 

“Come,” he bade again, more forcefully this time. “Strike true, and you’ll win your freedom. Fail, and… well,” he tutts his tongue in false concern on your behalf. “If you wish to keep your maidenly virtue, I wouldn’t lose to me now. For I will have it as a token of my victory.”

You scoff. “I’m no maiden. And I have no intention of letting you live past this conversation.” And then you push off toward the man, advancing forward at a sprint. He watches you behind his expressionless mask of silver, waiting for you to strike, and he moves to refocus your dagger that is aimed to plunge into his chest right before you ready your weapon.

Only you aren’t so foolish as that - you feign left at the last moment, your lack of armor making you light and dexterous as you fall into a crouch and slice at his leg. Your blade cuts through the thick leather coating his shin and he lets out a hiss of pain and surprise.

He manages to kick you before you have time to fully roll away from him, and although your cheek will surely blossom with a swollen bruise in time, you are more or less unharmed. 

“You sneaky little bitch,” he hisses, palming his wound to assess the damage. He holds his gauntleted hand to his face, fingering the blood left behind on his palm, a low growl in his throat. “You’re a more worthy adversary than I thought. Bravo.”

“You can surrender now,” you say, a threat as much as a way out of your current predicament - you’re not sure how you intend to strike a second successful blow.

He chuckles at that. “I’m still standing, aren’t I? You’ll have to do something about that if you wish to stop me.”

His laughter gets the better of you, your anger forcing your forward once again. This time you mean for him to expect another feint, however you intend to strike true and plunge your dagger straight into his belly. But the bastard must have known this, for he catches your dagger wielding hand and squeezes, hard, until your wilted fingers are forced to drop the blade into the grass before him as you gasp out in pain. 

He chuckles, and with a dizzying speed you are spun round, your back forced harshly against the gnarled surface of the tree behind you, so much so that your next breath is knocked out of you.

“A valiant attempt,” he says as he holds you there. You wriggle against him, but it does no good. “I thought you might devote yourself to Rosaria, but since you aren’t, I’ll have you give yourself to me, instead. And I will invade and pillage you to my heart’s content.”

“Let me go!” you shout as you squirm to free yourself from where he has you pinned. 

He pushes his body into you, making your efforts to get away even more futile. “Little ashen one,” he breaths, his voice an echo within that smooth, silver mask. “Why, you almost act as if I’m forcing you into this.”

“You are!” you shout at him, even as his nearness makes you dizzy in a way unfamiliar to you. It’s not only fear that has you trembling beneath him, but some kind of… well, you aren’t entirely sure. Is this some kind of spell he’s performed on you when you hadn’t noticed? Some type of sorcery that makes you resist him less and less? Because some sick part of you doesn’t want to push him away.

“Am I really? I’m good at reading faces,” he tells you, and he grabs hold of your jaw to force you to look at him. You glare between those dark slits of his mask that serve as unreadable eyes. You’re about to spit on him, to wriggle against him again, to try and bite him - anything to get away - but suddenly his free hand is roaming down your side and pressing into your waist, and you blink in surprise. “Ah, yes,” he muses as he watches you react to his touch. “I see it on that perfect face of yours. You want this.”

“I don- “ your breath hitches as he grabs a handful of your breast, and he watches the warmth creep up your cheeks with a growl of laughter. 

“You don’t what?” he questions into your flustered silence. “Don’t want me to stop?” His fingertips probe the hardened bud of your breast, fondling its peak through your light sorcerer’s cloak, and you bite back some type of wanting sound that tries to free itself from your throat.

 _What - you actually_ like _this bastard’s hands all over you?!_ You scream inwardly at yourself _. Get him off of you! Get away from him!_

He’s laughing at you, even as he gently kneads your breast as if it’s his personal plaything, his attention hooked to your every change in expression as he does so. “You love this,” he breathes, pushing more of himself against you. You whimper both in surprise and with unexpected pleasure, and he rumbles with something almost resembling a contented purr in response. “So why fight it? Surrender to it,” he urges, his fingers moving from your jaw and into your hair, gripping your roots tightly as his other hand continues to finger and pinch your nipple standing at his full attention through your garments.

“L-Leonhard,” you stumble, unable to give in - surrender is against your nature, the very word an insult. You can’t give up, can’t admit defeat to anyone, especially not this bastard.

But you don’t have a choice - he forces you to surrender to him. One strong leg kicks yours open as he fervently lifts up your skirt, and you feel the heat of his masked gaze lower to admire the exposed flesh of your thighs. 

“Stop,” you plead, even though it's half hearted at this point. There’s a warmth, an ache growing between your legs that can’t be ignored.

“I'm afraid not, darling” he says, his fingers kneading into the meat of one thigh. “You lost our duel, and this the price of your failure.” His gauntleted hand tears off your panties without effort, and you gasp in surprise at the sound of it. 

“Leonhard!”

“I’m not opposed to you shouting my name,” he says as his cold, metal-plated fingertips gently brush against your sex, sliding over their slickness. He chuckles as a lone finger traces up and down your wet folds, teasing you and you bite back a pleasured whine. “In fact, I think I insist on it.” He gently massages your clit, and you can’t hold back your moan in response. His attention clings to the noise, his voice darkened by need. “I rather like the sound of that,” he says, drawing circles around your swollen bud in a way that makes you cling to him in order not to start shaking.

“L-Leonhard,” you protest in between gasps. “I don’t… you’re…”

He stops playing with you, and brings his armored fingers to your lips. “Be a dear and lick these clean for me.”

Pulling yourself enough out of your grips of pleasure to glare at him, you demand, “What?!”

“I said,” he repeats, forcing his fingers into your mouth. “Lick these _clean_ for me.”

You nearly bite him in response, but some part of you wants this - wants to please him, wants him to take you and make you his - and so you wrap your tongue obediently around his fingers and begin to suck.

He hums with something like satisfaction as he watches you. “Your mask of reticence and defiance begins to crack,” he says as his black-masked eyes focus in on your every detail, his voice husky with restraint. “It so pleases me to see what lies beneath.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, and you’re too far gone to care any longer - some sick part of you wants this man, no matter how much of a foul bastard he is. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close, drawing the wetness of your tongue up the length of his silver mask. “If I can’t wear a mask,” you breathe hot against him, “then neither can you.”

He thrusts you back against the tree, grabbing hold of your jaw in a near bruising grip as you gasp. “If you ever win a duel against me, you can demand of me all you like. And until then, yours is not to insist I do a damned thing.” He fumbles to free his hard length from where it's pressed against his leather trousers, stroking it into full view as he watches you staring at it. He is well endowed, that much is certain. “I’m going to take everything I want from you at whatever pace pleases me, and you’re going to surrender to my every desire and inclination without a word of complaint. Is that understood?”

And then without warning, he drives his cock into you, sheathing himself entirely into your wet heat. You cry out in both pain and pleasure, and he covers your mouth with one hand. “You mustn't be too loud, darling,” he says, sounding like he’s grinning. “The firekeeper will hear you, and if you continue to moan so loudly she might think I’m torturing you.”

“Y-you _are_ torturing me,” you protest, grabbing hold of the thick material of his coat to pull him closer, your eyes wired shut with the effort it was taking not to continue moaning. You grab desperately for his cowl, pulling the thing off from around his shoulders so you can kiss and suck the length of exposed neck beneath his mask, and you hear his breathing become heavy within the echo of his mask as he begins thrusting in and out of you more forcefully, his length dragging against your inner walls. It was indeed torturous, in a way that would be even more torturous should he decide to stop. 

“You seem to enjoy it,” he chuckles against your ear, though his laughter hitches when you bite into the flesh under the crook of his jaw, his cock twitching within you.

“Just shut up,” you demand, and he grabs your neck and squeezes, pushing your head back against the tree behind you as he continues fucking you harshly into it. 

“I thought I told you not to demand things of me,” he growls, rutting into you at an increased tempo that has you crying out in broken moans despite his hold on your neck, or maybe even because of it. You really _are_ depraved, you think - though you're far past the point of caring. 

It didn’t take long before he was struggling to hold back his own moans. Some of them escaped his clenched jaw despite himself, the desperation drawing them making your inner walls drip all the more and cling around his cock, his hard length driving into you erratically. He picks you up off the ground in order to spread your legs even wider to him, to piston into you at an angle that has you mewling without abandon. Surely the firekeeper would be on her way soon to see what was the matter, but you no longer care about whatever debauchery she might stumble upon, and neither does he. You're both blinded by want, driven by your need for one another.

His breathy, little groans draw out, and together your panting and moaning is a trembling symphony of uncontrolled, raw desire. 

“Come for me,” he demands, his breath ragged as he continues thrusting into you at a madman's pace, his arousal filling you wholly and stoking a fire that threatens to engulf your entire body. You can barely comprehend your own thoughts, let alone his orders as you bury your face in his neck, your wanting moans muffled against his skin as you hungrily tongue at the sweat salting his flesh. 

He gives your ass a little squeeze as he changes the slight direction of his cock once again in such a way that it repeatedly pounds against that spot in you that has you nearly lost to a delirium of need. “Come for me,” he demands again harshly, some part of him sounding desperate for you to comply. He moans out as you bite him again, but soon after he's growling. “Don’t make me tell you again,” he warns, tightening his hold on you.

And you couldn’t disobey him even if you tried - you came, hard, your slick inner walls clamping down on his cock as if to keep it working that one little spot that brings stars to your vision. Drawn out, shuddering moans tear out of you as you shake and cling to him, your every breath strained and wild.

“Spread your knees more for me, darling,” he orders, but you can barely hear him as you ride the waves of pleasure he gives you. It doesn't matter - he forces your legs wider, anyway, and then he spills into you with a breathy grunt, fucking you senseless as you continue writhing around him, his cock boring into you again and again at a frenzied pace until every ounce of him is spent.

Drenched in sweat now, the two of you remain against that tree as he slowly withdraws himself from your folds, softly groaning at the sensation of it, before he places you back to stand on your wobbling knees.

You lean heavily against the tree behind you for support, clinging to him as he rests the forehead of his silver-masked face on your brow. His breathing is throttled within that mask, but still he refuses to take the damn thing off. You both stand there, basking in each other's nearness for a few minutes in a mutual, comfortable silence neither of you are bothered to fill. His nearness is enough, as is yours.

Eventually, he leaves you there leaning against the tree, bowing down to retrieve his abandoned crescent blade from where he’d dropped it in the long grass. He fixes his clothing before eying you for a few, drawn out moments in silence.

“Come find me if you wish to be pillaged like a wanton whore again,” he broods, before lingering off.

You glower after him, your cheeks still flushed from the intensity of the orgasm he’d left you with. “Fuck you, Leonhard!”

You hear his laughter before he's lost from view.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what you read, please feed me kudos!
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Creighton the Wanderer  
> Stalwart and trustworthy Patches  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Eygon of Carim
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	2. Sir Vilhelm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's twice as long as the last, oops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I promise they won’t all have this much slow burn, but I assure you dear reader I at least ended this chapter by tossing a reckless amount of gasoline into the flames.
> 
> I should also mention there’s very little ability to warp between bonfires in this story. Is this a cheap ploy at making the story more interesting? Probably. In any case, I’ve pretty much removed the possibility. Looks like you'll be hoofing it most places :( so sad
> 
> And uh… I've noticed a disturbing lack of Sir Vilhelm fics around here. Are y'all deaf? Have you not heard this man speak?? If you don't remember the throaty growl of Vilhelm, do yourself a favor and listen to this 20 second clip of him dropping your panties with a few mere sentences.
> 
> You might wanna sit down for this.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IgcezFDsFO4&ab_channel=SpencerSmallwood
> 
> Ahem, now then; we begin our tale...

**♡Up next in the lascivious smut parade, give it up for… Sir Vilhelm♡**

  


* * *

  
  
  


_Cold._

That’s what that peculiar codger in the red pointed hood had told you. The one you want to skin alive right about now. 

_The cold land of Ariandel._

Cold doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it.

You’re wearing skirts and a sorcerer’s robe, with nothing but a hood and a worn pair of leather gloves with matching boots to protect you from the elements. And the worthless codger didn’t even _think_ to _warn_ you that this wasn’t appropriate attire for a frozen wasteland like this?!

If you ever see him again, you _will_ shove a firebomb up his ass.

After having been uncomfortably sucked into that fragment of painting he presented you, you found yourself swallowed up in the strange, frigid wasteland of Ariandel, and taking a solemn vow to follow through with the whole firebomb-butthole thing was the first thing you did. 

The second thing you do is scream a long line of profanities against the bitter cold while attempting to find some kind of way _out_ of this miserable place. But there isn’t any form of escape anywhere in the frosted alcove you find yourself in; no, you’re surrounded by nothing but biting cold and a disgusting, crimson growth of some kind, one that seems to pulsate as it clings to every crevice of the stone walls. The sight and smell of whatever it is is in no way appealing, and so you seek to find a means of escape from this ice-carved hell any place else.

"I _will_ make you pay for this, you useless fucking codger," you grumble to yourself as you hug yourself against the cold. You venture out into the valley of snow beyond the cave, sulking all the while. You don’t do well with cold. 

And it's growing colder by the second - with an upward glance, you see a snowstorm rolling in, the bite of the icy wind picking up speed along with it.

“Just wonderful,” you brood sarcastically as you eye those ominous, fast-moving clouds, trudging onward through the banks of snow. Your poor boots are already beginning to soak through. This entire situation is a real mess. “I suppose this means I'll have the pleasure of suffering a slow, hypothermic death should I fail to escape soon. Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to it. Perhaps I'd even like to avoid it.”

In your search across the swells of snow and groves of wraith-like trees, you stumble across a plant you're familiar with and all too happy to find; a few rime-blue moss clumps, growing against the foot of a boulder. You pluck up the things and tear into them like a starving animal, even though they taste so bitter you nearly gag them back up again. But you're going to need the resistance to cold they give you if you’re to avoid the whole dying thing. They ebb the bite of frost against your skin a bit, and you continue sloughing forward in your search for escape - preferably to the Cathedral of the Deep so you can exact your revenge on the redhood codger, though you’ll settle for pretty much anywhere but this cruel, painted world at this point. The flurries of snow are building, and with nothing but your paltry moss treats and a thin cloak to aid you, you continue onward.

The blizzard blows in quickly, far more quickly than you'd expected, and with a vengeance intent on making you pay dearly for coming to this place. You tug your hood more snuggly about your face against its searing winds, cinching it shut in such a way that only your eyes peer out like you’re some kind of swamp creature. It doesn’t help much, as the torrents of wind whip around you, and the air grows thick enough to drive a sword through with snow. 

Eventually you glance back in the direction you think you’ve come from - you’re a bit turned around by this point - thinking you should return to the crimson cave until the storm passes, only to realize you can’t even see the tracks of your path back to it. Everything’s been washed away, lost to the building cold. 

_Well shit,_ you grumble inwardly, shivering uncontrollably as you cling to yourself. _I really_ am _going to die._

You turn back in the direction you _think_ the cave is in, though you can barely see a thing in front of you. Every feature in the landscape is painted white within the tempests of snow, and your every step forward is weighted knee-deep in the bed of it. 

You choke down your last moss clump, but your bones still seem to ache with the cold. Not a good sign. You’d better hurry up.

 _How can I allow myself to die to anything but the sword of an enemy,_ you scold yourself, dread prickling down your spine. Your eyes scrunch up in the effort to catch onto a visual of anything in the snow-tossed distance. _I’m going to die because I touched a painting. What a shit way to die._

Surely that red hooded codger deserves a fate worse than a firebomb up the ass for this. You'll have to think of something more creative.

But you’ll worry about that later, because a sudden screaming tears you from your vengeful thoughts - your own screaming, more specifically - because in the blindness this snowstorm has veiled you in you didn’t even notice a giant hole in the ground right in front of your face. And now you’ve gone and slipped into the thing, falling a good ten feet before crumpling into a heavy heap on the ground with such a force it knocks the wind clean out of you.

Groaning to reclaim your breath, you slowly manage to rake in a few painful gasps as you try to reclaim your sense of surrounding. You’re no longer being violently pelted by the wind, so that’s a blessing, at least.

Slowly, you pull yourself to sit, wincing out of the graceful, face-down sprawl you were previously in. You gingerly check your arms and legs for weakness, and breathe a sigh of relief that none of your limbs seem to have broken in your awkward landing to wherever this is… this cave, you realize, blinking about your new surroundings.

It’s fairly barren, but it's a shield against the cold, and you’ll take that for what it is. But there _is_ something in the shadows several feet away from where you sit… something resembling a long abandoned bonfire.

“Fire,” you call out like a crazed lunatic, nearly pouncing on the remnants of flame. It barely has enough kindling left to even be lit, but you manage it, and you’re so grateful for its low glow and warmth that you have to physically restrain yourself from kissing the flames in gratitude and melting half your face off in the process. And since that’s indeed a terrible idea, you settle for huddling into a shivering, ball of human before the low flickering flames, instead.

You watch the low fire dance as you curl in on yourself and wonder how long you’ll have to wait here for the storm to pass. Glancing at the mouth of the cave, you see the blizzard still whipping about as if it’s trying to grab you and pull you back out into it. It doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon, and therefore neither are you.

The sun slowly fades behind the torrent of snow and ice outside, and you’re left in the bitter chill of darkness left behind. You were already uncomfortable and half-frozen, but now you’re also on edge, because you’re not sure what kinds of creatures linger about in this painted world at night. Wolves, probably, and who knows what else. Snow fiends, perhaps. Some of the trees you saw earlier didn’t look entirely friendly, either, and you hope they don’t suddenly sprout legs.

Though perhaps they have, because you think you hear _something_ with legs out in the darkness over the sounds of the wind. Your ears prick up, your eyes narrowing against the slurry of thick snow blowing at the cave entrance, and although you’re not sure if the wind’s simply playing tricks on your weary mind you still reach for the shortsword strapped at your hip. You slide the blade of it partially from its scabbard, and you’re more than ready to unsheath it entirely should the need arise. And it’s like this you wait, eying the darkness and the blizzard beyond it, apprehension clenching your jaw even as you continue to shiver.

Your ears did not deceive you - a man breaches through the dark and the snow, stepping out of the shroud and into your low-glowing cave. His heavy footfalls crunch against the crystalline tinctures of ice glimmering across the bed of fresh, midnight snow, before thudding dully into the firm, bared earth of the cavern. 

You blink at his sudden arrival a few times in surprise, unsure exactly what to make of someone such as him finding you stranded in the grips of a howling blizzard, in no state to truly defend yourself against anyone with a sword like _that_. Your hand tightens on the hilt of your own weapon in hesitant silence, and he pauses a moment as he notices this. 

He’s not like any enemy you’ve yet come across, that much is certain, and his sword is large enough to easily cleave you in half. He’s slender and tall, though not without substance - a stranger encased in intricately crafted, full bodied plate armor. Across his shoulders and broad chest lay a seafoam-colored cape resembling silk, woven and threaded with gold into a mesh that falls into chain and hangs just past his forearms. The cape is beautiful, and latched high on his throat with heavy bronze clasps. He’s clearly of some renown; a knight, even.

And what in any version of hell, even this frigid, painted one, is a knight like this doing in the middle of a snowstorm, wandering about in the middle of the night?

Even though you sense he’s noticed the way your hand nervously treads against your sword hilt - a gesture giving well away your contemplations to draw and strike - he still makes no move to draw his own impossibly long great sword strapped at his waist. 

Finally, he breaks the tension of your mutual, watchful silence. “Well… you look to be Unkindled,” he muses, his voice a thing like gravel, a baritone so low it verges on a wolfish growl. He ventures closer a few more steps, away from the mouth of the cave, and you pull your sword a few more inches from its scabbard. 

“Stop right there, knight,” you warn him, sounding entirely too cold and nervous to be truly intimidating. 

He expels a single huff of mirth, like a barely amused dragon - but all the same, he stops. He watches you a moment more. “A bonfire at night,” he rumbles at length. “A beacon in this darkness, with you by its side. Tell me, do you mean to attract the wolves for company?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you return before suppressing a shiver. You don’t want to show this potential enemy any weakness, despite how obvious yours is at the moment, but the cold is _really_ making that difficult. “And would that I were - does that make you a wolf, then?”

“I’m no foul beast,” he admonishes, as if that wasn’t perfectly clear already.

Like most knights you’ve come across, this one evidently has an oh-so-noble stick up his ass, and no sense of humor at all as a result. “Just as well,” you tell sir stick-up-his-ass. Your sword hand tightens on the hilt of your blade. “In any case, I c-can handle a few wolves, even if you were one of them.” 

He takes another step toward you as you shiver again, and you fully draw your sword in response, even as you sit there hugging yourself with your free arm. “I said stop!” you sharply remind him, and he listens. “Tell me why you’ve come here, and I’ll h-have no lies!” You shiver again, cursing yourself for doing so. “H-have you come to kill me, then? Is that it? To swipe what you can o-off my frozen corpse?”

He scoffs again, like you’re some fool he’s been forced into dealing with, and then he closes the distance between you. You stumble to stand and face him and he simply brushes past your trembling sword length, even as it clinks against his impressive armor. He makes no move to meet your fighting stance with one of his own, instead standing before the smoldering bonfire at your side, the slits of his eyes facing it. 

You sputter in confused silence, wondering whether or not you should strike out at him anyway, and for a moment he disregards you completely as he stares into the flames, the light of which dances with reflections of orange light across the planes and intricacies of his exquisite armor. 

Eventually, he growls, “First you dub me a beast, and now a dishonorable plunderer of corpses. Your hospitality astounds.”

You blink a few times, your brows forming a confused knot; did sir stick-up-his-ass just make a _joke?_ You shake the possibility from yourself, waving your blade in a way meant to emphasize just how serious you are. “Perhaps my m-manners were left frozen somewhere out in the cold,” you retort with as much irreverence as your chattering teeth will provide. “I owe you nothing, knight, not wh-when you’ve yet to tell me why you’ve come here.”

“I’ve come to take you home,” the knight says, finally pulling his gaze away from the flames to look at you, and you’re surprised by his sudden bluntness, as well as by his words. 

“You… you have?”

“Are you deaf as well insolent?”

You scowl. “I’m unconvinced is what I am. Why would you trouble yourself to the extent of venturing through a midnight blizzard to do such a thing?”

“Because my former Lady wishes it,” he returns gruffly. “For me to dispel any ash that wanders to this painted place. And I will do what I must to this end.”

You eye him for a few moments as you consider his words. He seems to be serious - and if he is, you’re in no position to decline his aid. So, eventually, you stubbornly accept whatever help this stranger might provide you with. “Very well,” you say, sheathing your shortsword and falling into a shivering ball before the fire again. 

You aren’t looking at him, but you feel his studious gaze. “You’re dressed like a summer-loving fool,” he tells you, in case you didn't already know.

“Y-yes, I’m aware of this,” you gruffly supply.

“Then why have you come here dressed like that? _Are_ you a fool?”

“Don’t make me draw my sword on you again.”

He chuckles with brief amusement, and even his guttural, throaty laugh is intimidating. You hear a clinking sound, like metal on steel, and whip around to see him unfastening his chainmail cape. In a perplexed sort of silence, you stare at him as he stoops down to drape it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you visibly sink into the earth with a little _oomph_ sound.

“Better,” he endorses, watching with some kind of contentment as you enthusiastically tug it around yourself. Your lower lip purses as you stare up at him, wondering if you should be thanking him for his cloak, or hitting him for calling you a fool. Perhaps you’d like to do both. 

“Stand and face me, unkindled one,” he growls. “I doubt your frost-numbed fingers possess enough of their dexterity to fasten my cloak about you, and I won’t have you freezing to death in my presence. I would have you delivered safely to wherever it is you came from.” 

Blinking a few more times, you hesitate just a moment before stumbling to stand as he bade you. You stagger a bit as you wander toward him, your cheeks glowing with embarrassment over just how out of your depth you really are in this frozen place.

He steadies you by your shoulders, looking you over as if to make sure you’re not wounded, and you try not to stare at him as his steel-sheathed fingers work their way down your torso, fastening the bronze and leather clasps running the length of your borrowed cloak. His fingers brush against you as they travel downward, and you start getting goosebumps that are in no way related to the cold. You _do_ blame the cold, however, for apparently taking away all self control over your own body as you fight not to blush.

You risk one peek up at him. And then another. You can’t really help it - his armor is fascinating, and the gold patterns carved into it are mesmerizing.

"No bell tolls,” he says into your curious silence, as you very obviously sneak inconspicuous glances at him. “And yet, you’ve slipped into the painting. I might not have known of your presence here at all, were it not for your fire in the night.” He finishes his work before smoothing his cape down your shoulders to make sure it’s placed correctly, and you nearly lean into his touch. 

_Gods, get yourself together._

“How long have you been out here, lost in your way?”

You seek the slits in his helm that are too narrow to see much of anything regarding what his eyes might look like. “Long enough to hate it here,” you make no attempt to sugarcoat it, and he chuckles. “How you’ve managed to make a home in this painting, I’ll–”

Your ill-tempered remarks die on your tongue as a wolf howls in the distance, and second joins it. A haunting orchestra of bestial cries sounds out through the night, sounding much closer than you care for. Their howls hover and fade before you realize you’ve pressed yourself up against this strange knight in fear, your face nearly flattened against his chest plate. The man gently hums as if you’re some sort of scared, lost child he must succor, and with a voice like his the sound is almost more beastlike than it is comforting. He sounds like an actual, rumbling dragon.

You pull away immediately, your cheeks burning as brightly as the bonfire behind you. “I – I tripped,” you stammer.

“Well, you are indeed clumsy,” he agrees, and you bristle a bit even though the whole tripping thing was a lie of your own making. “But you needn't hide your fright from me. I’ll keep you safe from any beasts that might linger here, in this you have my word. And when the storm passes and the dawn breaks, I will lead you home.” He pauses before adding, “And if you insist on clinging to me in fear as I do so, so be it.”

“I wasn’t clinging to you!” 

His low laughter trails behind him as he steps away and lowers himself against the cave wall. “Come cling to me down here,” he tells you, ignoring your flustered silence and the manner in which your eyes spark like angry stormclouds upon being told you’re clingy once again. “I’ll help keep you warm until morning.” He eyes you as your lips pout in defiance. “You’re in no state to argue. The snow will surely swallow you whole without our shared warmth.”

He’s right, but you feel like arguing, anyway. “I’m grateful for your guidance out of this place - truly - but tell me, what would you have done were I to refuse to leave this painting of yours?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “Do you truly wish to know?”

The warning in his deep voice sinks a knife-like chill into the depths of your very bones, more so than the surrounding cold ever could have.

He doesn’t wait for you to muster up some kind of retort. “It hardly matters, as you openly despise this place and wish to rid yourself of it. This suits my endeavors just fine.”

“Well… maybe I don’t hate it so much, after all,” you argue for the sake of arguing. Perhaps you're not at your best conversation-wise when you're half frozen.

“Are you telling me you’re enjoying yourself in this cold painting?”

Your expression falters, but your stubbornness remains. “It’s not such a terrible, frostbitten wasteland.” You gesture with a listless hand, fluttering your half-frozen fingers as you add, “and perhaps having all one's fingers is an overrated trait.”

“Shall I take my leave and abandon you to the darkness and your own devices, then?” he questions. He moves as if to stand. “I think the cold can accomplish what my sword might. I’ll be wanting my cloak back, in that case–”

“No!” you cut off immediately, swallowing your pride and stepping over to where he sits, plopping down onto the cold-pressed earth before him, as requested. “No, just… forgive me, knight. Stay, if you would, and when the storm passes I will leave your painting, as you wish. I'd like nothing more.” Your lips form a tight line of apology as you search his armored face. “Just... please, stay.” You detest how desperate you sound, but desperation is far more tolerable than making this place your icy tomb. 

You finger the heavy, chainmail cape about your shoulders as you study his helm again. "And leave the cape," you add a bit more assertively. “I’m rather fond of it.”

“Very well,” he agrees in his low growl, and you hear the metal plating of his leggings scrape against themselves as he shifts his legs open and draws you closer to him before you can even think to object, fitting your back to his chest like you’re a piece in his puzzle. His legs run the length of your own, and his plated arms curl around your stomach, latching in place around you.

And his armor is _cold,_ you realize with a shriek as you try to pull away. “Your armor!” you object, struggling against the solid cage of his metal arms. “I-it’s freezing!”

“It will warm,” he tells you matter-of-factly, unimpressed by your theatrics. “Try to get some sleep. I don’t think I can suffer through this night should that mouth of yours remain in any state of consciousness.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” 

“It means to stop arguing with me, you unruly bit of ash. And cease your incessant wriggling!” He tightens his hold on you - not that he needs to, because you’re making no headway in your efforts to wiggle away from him. “I’ll need the heat of your body just as much as you’ll need the heat of mine if we’re to make it through the night in this cave.”

“At least take your armor off if we’re to fold about one another like this!”

“My armor stays,” he states firmly. “Our fire is needed, and might yet still attract those wretched creatures of the dark. I’d have my armor on me should I need to stand and fight.”

“But surely–”

“I’m quite resolved in this matter,” he growls with mounting impatience. 

“Fine,” you concede, and you finally relent into the hold of his arms, though you aren’t happy about it. 

You gradually ease with more comfort against him, feeling oddly safe after a time to be held there like that. And although he has more or less demanded that you fall asleep in his lap, you’re still too cold to ever hope to accomplish such a thing. You’re also quite distracted by being so close to him, to this man who rescued you and yet you don’t even know his name. But you’re flustered by the rise and fall of his every swell of breath, and by the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you.

You begin drawing lines over the elaborate designs running like black and gold veins along the back of one of his gauntlets to distract yourself from any untoward thoughts, as well as from the cold, your fingers following the designs in his armor up and along his forearm with your fingertips. 

“What are you doing?” he gruffs, shaking your fingers away. “Stop that and sleep.”

You turn back to blink up at him. “It’s far too cold to sleep. I fear I’ll remain awake all night.”

His helm tilts to look at you. “Well it’s not too cold for one to close their mouth in the attempt.”

“You never told me your name, you know.”

He lets out a heavy, exasperated sigh, and nearly sounds like an irritated bear while doing so. Your whole body vibrates with the sound of it. “You may call me Sir Vilhelm,” he relents to the agony of your conversation at last.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Sir Vilhelm,” you say pleasantly, ignoring his annoyance with you. You rather enjoy pressing people’s buttons, anyway, and Sir Vilhelm’s are so openly displayed and practically begging to be played with. Knights and their uptight, vigilant, duty-bound countenances; they’re so easy to goad if one feels so inclined.

“My name is **________** , and you may call me as such.”

“And where do you fare from?” he asks with barely a hint of interest.

Well, that’s a rather complex question, when you really stop to think about it. Because not only have you traveled to places and far-off lands where you’re referred to as the Ashen One, you’ve also ventured to places under the moniker of the Chosen Undead, and even to those far reaches where they call you the Bearer of the Curse.

So what to tell him? “I seem to have stumbled out of some complicated cosm beyond comprehension. I’m fairly certain I’ve even traveled through the cracks and passageways of time.”

He doesn’t sound all that impressed. “Fascinating,” he gruffly puts out. "Well, now that we're familiar, will you at long last cease your rambling and attempts to play with my armor? Or do you require running your mouth a bit more? Because if you subject me to the latter, I might simply gag you as I drag you from this painting."

You sputter in soundless protest, and he seems to accept that as an answer.

“I admire your newfound dedication to silence. Goodnight, then.”

“Wait!”

“ _What?_ ” 

“Um…” you drawl, searching for a way to keep talking, to distract your mind from the aching cold. “I still don't know you all that well, good knight. For example…. I, um…. What’s your favorite color?”

Silence ensues – but you can practically feel his annoyance seeping into you. “Must we discuss such silly and pointless things?!”

“I need something to occupy my mind with,” you whine. “Otherwise I might simply perish into a suffocating abyss of cold and boredom. And that would hardly aid in your delivering me safely home.” 

“I could knock you unconscious, since you cannot sleep, if you like?” He helpfully suggests. He seems to be rather fond of the idea.

“That would be far from knightly of you, Sir Vilhelm.”

“A mere suggestion, one easily ignored.” He pauses. “Though if you like –”

“I wouldn’t like anything of the sort!”

He grumbles something you can’t hear past his helm, sounding like an armored bear in so doing.

The wolves howl in the distance again, and Sir Vilhelm tightens one arm around you, while the other twitches as if to consider grabbing up his great sword set beside him. But the sound of calling beasts passes, with only the howling of the wind left behind in its wake.

You snuggle his arm against you, drawing as much warmth and safety from it as you can. You have half a mind to pull his hand flush against you, to draw his fingertips over the thin material of your robes, and your cheeks immediately flare up at the thought. 

_Hey, I thought I told you to stop fantasizing about the insufferable knight you just met,_ you chastise yourself.

But you’ve always been bad at following your own advice, and you’ve a penchant for poor decisions as well. 

Slowly, you turn to look up at his face again, looking past the sharp point of his mouthpiece to where his eyes must be, somewhere beneath those shadowed slits. Quite honestly, this insufferable knight has saved your life this night, once already from the cold, and if those wolves were to linger toward your fire he would surely save your life yet again.

“Do you realize you’re staring at me?” he questions, as you roll a few immodest ideas around in that head of yours. Slowly, a devious sort of smile plays your lips, one that makes him grow tense behind you. “Whatever are you smiling about,” he wonders aloud. “Has the cold succeeded in driving you mad?”

Perhaps you _are_ mad, you think, as you question whether or not your next idea is a good one. You tip-toe two fingers up the length of his plated arm, smiling a bit nervously all the while. He doesn’t even notice at first, you’re sure of that, because when he does notice he jolts in place and slaps your hand away. “Stop that! My armor isn’t a toy for you to amuse yourself with. Do you really insist on tormenting me all night?”

You giggle at how alarmed he suddenly seems to be; you can’t help it, you simply find his unyielding severity oddly… well, adorable. 

Perhaps, you think with a little smirk, you might seduce this savior knight of yours from his narrow path of nobleness, and distract yourself from the cold in the meantime. You can’t seem to shake away your unchaste inklings about him, besides, and the attempt to make them a reality could be fun... as long as you don't end up tied and tossed, kicking and screaming over one of his shoulders as a result should you fail.

You're willing to roll the dice.

“Good knight,” you say in your breathiest voice, one meant to hopefully beguile this knight who is quite possibly past any such attempts. You turn onto your knees to fully face him, still very close and draped in his arms. And you’d like to imagine he looks quite startled by this, especially since he doesn’t respond right away. “You’ve saved me this night, Sir Vilhelm,” you say, hoping your sultry voice isn’t a bit over the top. “I surely would have perished to the merciless cold, or on the maw of some snapping beast, if you hadn’t sought out the light of my small fire.” You slide your hands over his shoulderplates, and he sucks in a muted breath. You're not exactly sure what it means, but the sound of it drives you on anyway, your hands latching behind his armored neck as you search his plated face. “I owe you my life. And I’d like to show you just how grateful I am. Perhaps I might...” you gently cup the cheek of his helm, looking between his hidden eyes for some sort of reaction you wouldn’t possibly be able to make note of, though you try nonetheless. “Perhaps I could show you just how grateful I am, and we might warm ourselves a little in so doing.”

He seems to catch on to your somewhat clumsy attempts at seduction, and is quick to toss them aside. “That… That isn’t necessary,” he assures you, yet somehow his gravelly voice lacks its normal, heavy presence. 

Well, maybe your attempts weren’t so clumsy, after all. In any case, you aren’t giving up that easily. In fact, his resistance just makes you want to win him over all the more. It’s almost like he’s presented you a challenge - and he hasn’t hogtied you yet, so that’s a good sign, right?

“Even so,” you murmur, one hand still on his cheek as your other brushes down his steeled chest. “I am in your debt, and I wish to repay you.”

He isn’t pushing away, even as your hand reaches his waist, and when you brush your palm against the leather between his legs you find a growing hardness there that certainly isn’t a facet in his armor.

He harshly grabs your wrist to stop your hand from moving forward, yet he doesn’t move your hand away. “I do as honor dictates, without recompense.”

“Then allow me to be the first to requite what your honor has given me,” you implore, cupping his growing bulge again. You feel it twitch with need against your palm, and although his fingers tighten round your wrist, he still doesn’t pull your hand away like he probably should if he actually hopes to stop you. You press your fingers against his leggings, seeking the hardness you find there. He’s so hard already, and feeling that makes you ache for him. “You’ve vowed to keep me safe this night, and I would return your kindness with the softness of my touch.” 

He hesitates. “I need not your thanks, and would never ask for such a thing,” he manages to growl, though the sound of it is cut short as you begin massaging the shape of his hardening arousal, trailing your fingers over its ridge. Your eyes light up like feverish diamonds as you feel just how responsive he is to your every caress. 

His entire body seems to clench up, and a warmth like flames flickers and dances between your legs as you continue teasing him with the touch of your fingers. “You need not ask, for it is mine to do so - please, Sir Vilhelm,” you murmur, bringing your lips close to one side of his helm. “Allow me to show you how grateful I am that you found me here, lost to the cold." You pull back a bit, sucking in your lower lip for a moment, and you can almost hear his sharp intake of break as his attention narrows in on the movements of your lips. "Let me shower you with every praise my body can give you. I wish to feel your warmth more fully, and to give you what little I have in return.”

When he says nothing in response and makes no move to stop you, your fingers dip beneath the band of his leather trousers, and your hand strokes up and down his length a few times as you listen to the way his breathing becomes strained, as you feel the way his shoulders lock in place. He releases your wrist, using his hands to steady himself against the cave floor as his head rolls lightly back with the pleasure of it. He's rock hard in moments, the result of clearly being touch-starved for who knows how long. You'd like very much to touch him until he can take no more.

"Does my gift have blessing, then, knight?" You softly wonder, pausing just a moment in your touch, though your thumb wanders over the bit of slickness already beginning to form at his tip in a way that seems to have him lost for words.

He hesitates to answer, his jaw seemingly locked in place. "If… if this is truly how you wish to show your gratitude," he finally gets out, his voice ebbed with a torment struck between the strict virtue of a knight and raw desire of a man. He can't seem to pick which one to follow through with, but his desire to feel your hands on him seems to be putting up the more valiant fight at the moment.

You resume stroking his length again, biting at your lip as you do so, and a very restrained, throaty groan vibrates through his entire body. He’s so reluctant to give in to his own pleasure, and that only makes you want him to give in to it more. You want to hear these sounds he fights against making, to tip him over the edge, to break every little bit of resolve he has left, and so you work his shaft in slow, purposeful strokes that slowly build in their intensity, gently guiding him toward a precipice of pleasure, and slowly he begins to gently thrust against your eager hand as his hesitations become lost to the rising tides of desire. 

He seems perfectly content to fuck your hand like this, to thrust against you with growing desperation until he reaches his end, but you’re overcome by something primal - you want more of him, want to taste him, and so you work down the band of his leggings just enough to free his throbbing cock out from its confines. 

You lean down and wrap the heat of your tongue around his flushed tip, and you swear his knees nearly buckle at the sensation. Lapping up the slickness of his precum, you swirl your tongue around him before dragging its wetness up and down his length as his hands grip against the earth and a low moan escapes him. Your opened, moist lips brush against his skin, your quickened breaths warm against him. More - you want more of him, and you wrap your parted lips around him so you can take as much of him as you can into your mouth, your tongue sliding over him again and again as you begin stroking over him at a torturous pace. He bucks into your mouth almost involuntarily in his need to fill you, to have your tongue trail past every part of him, and you have to hold his plated thighs down so he can’t accidentally lose himself and thrust into your throat too eagerly. A low groan claws its way from his chest as you swirl your tongue about his length, stroking your mouth and lips over him with a longing that has you moaning against him. You want to taste every inch of him, and your greedy tongue slides over him repeatedly to this end.

The needy, muffled sounds you make around his cock unhinge something in him, and he coaxes you to continue with one of his gloved hands. His fingers thread in your hair as he guides you at a gradually quickening pace, tugging more fiercely at your roots the more he hears your soft moans against him. His breath hitches everytime the sounds you make vibrate through him, and every time you flick your tongue over his tip. 

“ **________** ,” he rasps as he watches you between his legs. “I… I’m close...”

Your tongue drags up his length one more time, before you lick your lips and search his plated face. “Then I’ve nearly shown you just how grateful I am,” you breathe, enjoying the way his attention seems to hinge on your tongues every moment. “Though I fear I won’t succeed in this until you tell me where it is exactly you’d like to come, for you can use me in any way that pleases you.”

That seems to startle him a bit, and he tenses in silence before stammering, “I beg your pardon?”

Biting back your amusement, your eyes dance between where his eyes must be behind his helm. “Are you deaf as well as insufferable?” 

He growls at the offense, but doesn't say anything.

And his low, offended rumbles strangle right out of him the second you resume stroking him again, and you implore a bit more ardently, “Would you truly like to beg my pardon, Sir Vilhelm? Or would you rather simply tell me where it is you’d like to drive your cock in me?”

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word, but you can hear his weighted breaths. “Go on, then," he growls. "Show me how grateful you are by worshiping my cock with your wet cunt, for I would come buried to the hilt within you." His words are ravenous, and yet still hindered by some kind of uncertainty over demanding such a thing, like he can't fully believe he actually requested something quite that lewd out loud.

Perhaps he thinks you’ll object - but you’re aching to be filled by him, and you crawl into his lap without a second thought. 

He isn’t surprised by your eagerness for long - he watches you fumble to lift your skirts for a moment before grabbing at them himself, flinging them away from your thighs with purpose, and when he feels your slickness on him he sucks in a ragged breath like a man drowned.

His cock presses against your slick folds, and you rock against him as his muscles strain and tremble beneath you. You tease him for just a moment, sliding your slickness over him as you bite back the yearning sounds that threaten to pour out of you every time his length brushes past your sensitive nub. And then he pushes into you as you gasp, biting your lip as your back arches to take every inch of him. 

He takes hold of your hips, watching you without moving for a moment as if to gauge whether or not you’re ready to continue, and you tell him you are by grasping his shoulders and dragging your walls up and down his hardness a few times, whimpering with every blissfully agonizing press of his cock within you.

Fingers digging almost painfully into the thin fabric at your waist, he lifts you up and down as you ride him, thrusting upward with growing fervor into your slick heat. Soon he’s panting with the effort to hold back from tossing you over and fucking you into the frozen earth as you writhe and whimper against him. He’s brought closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy with his every forceful, upward stroke against your clenching inner walls.

You’re too caught up in the pleasure he’s giving you to notice he’s taken off his helm, though you hear it clatter against the cave floor beside you. And then his hand is tight around the back of your neck, and he pulls you nearly off balance so he can draw you into a bruising kiss. He continues thrusting into you as you whimper into his mouth, and he swallows every sound of it, his insistent lips parting yours, his tongue seeking the eagerness of your own. 

He kisses you until he can no longer breath under it, and then he pulls away enough to groan, his thrusts growing more erratic, more demanding, and his hand travels up the back of your neck and into your hair. His hardness throbs within you and he can’t hold back from spilling into you and he continues rutting into you like an animal, all semblance of knighthood lost to the carnal beast of need that remains.

You’re close to joining him, your thighs twitching as you continue to rock your hips against him, taking him deeper as you finally cry out. A coil of electric pleasure pulls tight as a bowstring at your core, and then it snaps, and you’re left broken and nearly sobbing as you drive him into you harder and faster than before. “V-Vilhelm,” you manage to choke out before he kisses you again, his mouth devouring yours as you whimper against it.

He continues to fuck you as you slam against him, until finally you begin drifting back down from the heights of soul-writhing bliss. Panting against his neck, you fall against his shoulder as he slips out of you. He keeps you close against him as he chases after his own breathing, seeking to reclaim its regular patterns.

After a few moments, you begin to gently laugh against his neck, simply because of how unexpectedly worn out you are, and his hold on you tightens in response.

“What’s the matter?”

You bite back your lazy humor enough to smile at him, but you don’t lift your head from his broad, plated shoulder. You smile at his mess of dark curls and at the way he seems suddenly so concerned by something as simple as contented giggling.

“How do you still have a stick up your ass after fucking me like that?”

He doesn’t seem to think that’s funny, which really just makes it that much funnier.

You kiss the side of his neck to hopefully show you're simply joking, before snuggling up against him. “I think I’m tired enough to fall asleep now.”

He growls his approval. “Perhaps I should have driven my cock in you the second I first laid eyes on you, in that case,” he contemplates aloud. “If only to shut you up, little ash.”

And normally you might have hit him for that, but you’re far too relaxed for something like that now. So you wiggle closer into the crook of his neck instead, yawning before you mutter with just a _hint_ of sarcasm, “Good _night_ , Sir Vilhelm.”

He chuckles against your hair, resting his strong chin atop your head. “Finally, you leave me with the peace of your silence.” He shifts his head atop yours, so that he can watch the mouth of the cave from where you’re snuggled against him. “Rest well, **________** ,” he rumbles. “I’ll keep watch while you sleep, until the dawn greets us. And then I’ll lead you and your talented, ceaselessly wagging tongue back to wherever it was you came from.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what you read, please feed me kudos!
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Creighton the Wanderer  
> Stalwart and trustworthy Patches  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Eygon of Carim
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	3. Creighton the Wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These keep getting longer… I think something’s wrong with me……. oops?
> 
> As requested, this chapter features everyone’s favorite axe-weilding wanderer, Creighton! And oh-me-oh-my was it a lot of fun to write :) but I gatta warn anyone who isn't into graphic violence (the fight scene kind), non-con/dub-con, or hate sex, well… you might wanna skip this one. I've seen some fluffy renditions of Creighton on here, but I think murderous psychopath Creighton is much more fun.
> 
> I've taken some liberties with sorceries and item locations, especially since not all spells are in all Dark Souls games, and especially since I haven't written my Orbeck chapter yet.

**♡All aboard! Next to ride the night train of smuttiness is none other than… Creighton the Wanderer♡**

* * *

  
  
  


“Hey, you-”

Your next step forward through this darkened land hesitates, as you pause to listen to what you _think_ might have been someone talking to you. But you’re fairly certain you’ve slain every emaciated hollow lingering around these dangerous cliffsides, and as you peer around with narrowed eyes, you don’t see anyone else who could be speaking to you.

Dark trees surround you in groves, as well as the jagged teeth of cliffs with old, worn bridges stringing their many islands together. Oh, and there’s a nice friendly pile of burning corpses a bit off in the distance. Yup, nothing like a pile of charred hollows to really keep your spirits alive. Huntsman’s Copse is a charming nightmare of a place, filled with death and poisons and far more danger than you care for.

And voices, imagined ones apparently, because you definitely seem to be hearing things.

“Over here, you dunce,” the husky, accented voice calls again. He sounds slightly more annoyed now, and you turn toward the sound of it. And that’s when you notice that a massive boulder nestled beside the precipice a little ways off isn’t a boulder at all, but some kind of hollowed out, stone-carved structure disguised beneath a veil of dust and moss.

And right inside of it, behind a sturdy, iron-barred doorway, stands a man in a mask watching your every movement. His eyes lock on to you as you finally take note of him there, and you remind yourself that you _really_ need to rest some place soon, since you really should have noticed him staring at you like that before now. 

“Well don’t just stand there,” he goads in his low voice. He’s leaning into the bars of the door caging him, his elbows resting over the outside of it, and he gestures with one listless hand for you to come a bit closer. 

But instead you stand there, feet glued to the ground as you openly stare at the man, who is a bit unnerving if you’re being perfectly honest. His broad, muscular body is sheathed almost entirely in heavy chainmail, as if his very skin were made from it. A chainlink-scaled dragon of a man. His steel-blue tabard is frayed and tattered at the ends, and gilded with a white stag across his sturdy chest.

But it's his mask that really strikes you with a cord of apprehension, that keeps your feet from obeying any orders to move toward him. That somewhat menacing, scarred mask of steel, fitted to his aventail hood of chain. It hides his every feature and somehow makes him appear like a rabid, muzzled beast - although the matching cage ensemble sure isn’t helping things on that front. All but his wisps of silvery hair are hidden away behind that mask, and those watchful eyes of ice, their wintry blue sizing you up as you stand there gawking at him.

You realize you’ve probably been gawking at him a bit awkwardly for quite a while now, by the way he eventually scoffs. “Some venturer you are. You’re scared stiff by the site of little ol’ me, aren’t you?” A few huffs of amusement escape him. “I won’t bite - I’m no backstabbing knave, though you’re wise to be cautious for one. I know for a fact one such rat has recently scittered about this place.” He motions you over again. “Come on, then. I’ve a favor to ask, that’s all.”

You eye him, uncertainty pressing your frown into a flat line. Should you _really_ be doing a man like him any favors? He's basically wearing an armored muzzle, and _someone_ thought it best to lock him up in a cage. But, as usual, your curiosity is not to be ignored, and you find yourself itching to at least find out what it is this guy wants from you, exactly. 

You and your damned curiosity - it's bound to get you killed someday.

But surely not today. Surely.

“What kind of favor?”

“Well if you’d come over here like I asked, instead of lingering there like a scared little tart, I might just tell you,” he broods.

“Scared little tart?” you repeat with a newly derisive glance. “I was wondering why you were locked up like that in a cell, but I’m pretty certain I can see why that is now. It’s just a shame whoever did it didn’t also bind and gag you beforehand.”

His chainmailed fingers curl in on themselves for a moment. Uh oh, someone's got anger issues. “Look, _tart_ ,” he tries again, his deep voice strained by his impatience. “Do me this favor, and I’ll tell you where you can find a man with an entire bolt-hole of treasure. I’ll even lead you there myself, and kill’im for you first, so you’ve got nothin’ standing in your way. Now, how does that sound?”

And you have to admit; that doesn’t sound too bad. You’re at least intrigued by the idea. After all, who doesn’t like treasure? Though you’re not entirely sure you’re fully onboard with the whole slaying of a stranger to rob him of said treasure part. 

Ah, well; an ethical dilemma for future-you to figure out. For now, present-you would like some treasure, please.

So you stroll a bit closer to the iron bars that imprison the masked man, careful not to get too close in case he gets a sudden hankering to lunge out and pull you closer. He nearly seems the type. “Alright, then,” you say, folding your arms somewhat casually in your regard of him. After all, he can’t manage to do much to you from locked up in that cage. “Tell me your favor, and perhaps I’ll see what I can do.”

His sky-blue eyes crinkle with the grin hidden behind his mask. “That’sa girl. What’s your name, pretty thing?”

Your every feature falls flat as you steadily lose more and more patience with this man and his endless supply of aggravating sobriquets. “It’s surely not ‘pretty thing’ or ‘scared little tart’, of that much I’m certain.”

A bit of low laughter echoes from his mask, his eyes crinkling with it. “Well you’re a cheeky one. Fine, don’t tell me your name, and I’ll continue calling you tart just the same. And you can call me Creighton, of Mirrah.”

“Well, Creighton of Mirrah, are you going to tell me anytime today what it is you want from me?” you question, even more impatient now. You almost consider walking away from his cell entirely, leaving him there to call anyone else other than you a tart.

He huffs with low laughter again. “You’re more brazen than the last one. I like that. Alright, I’ll get on with it.” He gestures broadly around the cell he’s imprisoned in, his eyes never leaving you. “There’s a key to this place nearby. I sent off one fool already for the damned thing, but he never came back. Probably got himself killed somewhere.” He nods in the direction of a nearby bridge. “He went that way. Be a good girl and get me that key, and the treasure’s all yours.”

You finger your staff as you mull the prisoner’s request over in your mind, eying him all the while. Is it wise to free him, this man someone locked up for unknown reasons? And even if it were, you’ve nearly exhausted all your sorceries coming this far on your journey into the treacheries of the Huntsman landscape. There's been so many enemies and traps laid out for you to deal with along the way, all of them unkind and vicious, and so few bonfires with which to resupply your magecraft and estus, or sharpen your now dull blade. 

But you certainly could use whatever you might find in that bolt-hole Creighton went on about... you've been running low on supplies for a while now. Not only that, but you're pretty sure you see the low glow of a bonfire somewhere behind him in that cage of his, though you're not about to get any closer at the moment to find out. 

“Fine," you agree, and the man's eyes light up eagerly at the sound of it. "As long as I have your word about getting my fair share of this loot you’ll lead me to in return, I think I can manage to get you your key.”

“My word is yours,” he says with a smile. “So run along, then, and be quick about it.”

The path Creighton sends you on is narrow, dauntingly so, with a perilously steep view overhanging its edges that makes your head reel whenever you ever accidentally peer down at the shrouded depths of it for too long. But soon, shockingly soon in fact, you stumble across a slain body of someone who doesn’t appear to belong in this land, an adventurer of some sort, his corpse tossed about on the roots of an old, mossy tree.

“You must be the poor fool Creighton sent off, then,” you murmur as you approach his broken body. You don’t much care for pilfering the dead, but there’s only one way to find out if the sorry fool succeeded in finding the key to Creighton’s imprisonment before he met his unfortunate demise. 

And he had - you find the key in his small waist pouch, and you pocket the thing. 

_Huh, well that was rather easy, now wasn’t it?_ You haven’t even crossed paths with a single enemy, _and_ someone else was bothered to find the key for you? This quest of Creighton's has turned out to be much too simple, delightfully so.

“Given up already?” Creighton asks when he spots your swift return, and you brandish the key with a little, fox-like grin in response. He laughs when he spots it. “Oh, you’re _good_."

“Aren’t I?” you boast with a cheeky little smirk, unable to help yourself despite having done virtually nothing.

He wastes no time. “Now give it here,” he demands, holding a leather-palmed hand out.

But now that the time has come to actually free him, some inkling of apprehension nags at you not to do so. Your lips pout as you size up his sturdy frame behind the bars, and you twirl the brass key around between your fingers a few times while doing so. 

No, there’s simply no way you can just _let him out_ of there. Not without knowing a bit more about what got him locked up in there in the first place.

“What are you waiting for?” he probes, his temper waning. “Give it here and jog on if you must, but give it here all the same!”

You close your fingers around the key. “Not so fast,” you tell him. “You’ve been in there for who knows how long, and a few moments longer won’t kill you. So before I let you go, tell me who locked you up in there,” you order. “And why they went about it. Or I’m not letting you out.”

Although you can't know for sure, you're fairly certain he's openly glowering at you. His eyes are narrowed and hard as chipped ice, anyway, and you assume the rest of his masked features are contorted to match. “A little tit for tat, hm?” he broods, not sounding happy about it. “What’s it matter to you?”

“I need to know I’m not undoing something I’ll regret.”

He seems reluctant to tell you, which doesn’t exactly quell your reluctance to free him. “Okay,” he grumbles at last. “Fine, then. I’ll tell you. I set a trap here for that prick with the treasure I told you about. The one I'm gonna settle the score with; the one I’m gonna bury my axe in if it's the bloody last thing I do. But then I went ahead and got trapped in here myself.” His hands clench the bars of his cell as anger overtakes him. “I can’t believe I was so _dense_!” 

You stare at him for a few incredulous seconds, and slowly, very slowly, an amused, cheshire grin reaches out across your face. You try not to, but you begin to laugh at just how hilarious you find his unfortunate predicament, and even though you bite back on it he perks up at the sound of your strangled laughter. “You _what_?” you manage to squeak out without openly cackling, trying to get ahold of yourself. "You trapped _yourself_ in there? On _accident_?"

His shoulders bridge off as anger rolls like steam off of him. “Think that’s _funny_ , do you?”

The effort it's taking for you not to grin too much is actually painful. “Did you tell the other poor bloke you sent off on your behalf how you got yourself locked up in there?” His mounting outrage just serves to make the whole situation that much funnier somehow, and a few giggles creep their way past your efforts to contain them. “I think perhaps you did, and that's what killed him. He died with laughter at the thought.”

Creighton’s solid, chain-cased arms tense with ire, and he bangs one heavy fist against the bars of his cage, the violent sound of it whipping through the air. "Just give me the damn key you cheeky little wench!”

Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed at him, but hey, you couldn’t exactly help yourself as you pictured him stumbling into his own trap like a complete fool. And now that he’s furious with you, you might as well have a little fun with it. “Now now,” you admonish, as if chastising a spoiled child. You waggle the brass key at him, enjoying the way his eyes cling to its every shimmering movement. “That’s no way to treat your new wardress; not if you hope to get your grubby hands on this key of mine.”

“So that’s how you’re gonna go on about it, is it?” he snarls, his hands twisting into the bars of iron imprisoning him with so much fury you almost fear he might rip right through them. "You're no better than that prick with the treasure! You're a dirty, good for nothing rat!"

You smile at him, pocketing the key with a little, carefree shrug. “Ah, well. I guess I shouldn’t let you out, if that’s the case, seeing as how you mean to kill that rat, and probably myself alongside him.”

He’s actually trembling with how much of his rage overwhelms him, his eyes biting at you like currents of ice as he glares from behind his bars. 

And then, suddenly, the frigid coils of his temper melt away, unraveling themselves from his rigid muscles in the wake of a contemplative, watchful silence that follows.

Your feet vibrate a bit against the earth, but you can’t be bothered by it, because you’re too hooked on his abrupt change in mood, unnerved by the way he leans his elbows casually over the bars of his cell again, perhaps even smiling at you. You lift a skeptical brow as he settles in comfortably, especially perplexed when he begins to laugh. Is he losing his damned mind right in front of you?

“Well this is rich,” he jeers. “I’ll just have the next one pick the key off _your_ corpse, then.”

A crease whittles its way between your brows. “What’s that supposed to–”

Something slams into you, something monstrous and foul, something so powerful it tosses your body like a ragdoll into the trunk of a tree several yards away, with such force you might not have weighed anything at all.

You slam against the trunk of the tree before crumpling into a mess of limbs at its roots, gasping as sharp pain rattles through every bone in your body. Trembling with the shock of it, you manage to push yourself up enough to see what it was that sent you sprawling through the air, and your eyes grow wide at the sight of a massive, hulking beast coming right for you. An undead huntsman, larger than any you’ve seen before, wielding two terrible sickles rusted over by blood spilled many times by their bite.

“Fuck,” you breathe, the monster’s hideous form reflected in your widening eyes. 

_Not good - not good at all – fucking really not good_

“Are you deaf?” Creighton’s voice calls over at you, brimming with his open entertainment at seeing you smacked about by a giant beast. His head presses to the bars so he can continue watching the show. “How did you not hear that thing sneaking up on you?!”

You can’t be bothered to respond, and just barely roll away in time not to be sliced in half by one of the huntsman’s curved blades. The sickle’s tip sinks into the dirt where you were just kneeling, and the length of it rakes heavy through the earth right beside you as the beast pulls back for another strike.

You struggle, pushing yourself to stand and face the huntsman, drawing your sword as you do so, but not quickly enough - the towering beast backhands you again, and you’re sent sprawling back in the direction you came from. You hit the ground and roll a few times with the force of it, coughing and fighting unsuccessfully to stand again, instead left staring skyward in a daze. Your sword is gone, lost from your slackened grip and sent flying somewhere into the underbrush.

But you still have your staff, secured to your sword belt. You can still defeat this monster. With a pained groan, you roll onto your hands and knees in the direction of the huntsman as it rounds on you again. Warmth is trickling down your brow from where you must have hit your head, and you wipe the blood away before it can obscure your vision, biting back your fear as the bladed fiend closes in to where he’s tossed you.

You can hear Creighton rumbling with low, amused laughter from his cage beside you, and you barely direct a glare his way. He watches you groveling on battered limbs, swordless and disoriented, with a gleeful glint in his hungry blue eyes. “Ooh, that’ll leave a nasty scar!”

“Shut the hell up!” you manage to yell at him, to which he simply laughs.

Drawing your staff from your waist, you don’t have much time to think before desperately conjuring the only heavy soul arrow you have left. The huntsman is trudging toward you with greater speed now, and it won't be long before he impales you on his twisted blades.

So you conjure the arrow of blue light in a panic, and it sears right past the monster’s head. You fucking _missed._

_How… how did I miss that? What am I supposed to do now?!_

Creighton leans into the bars of his cage with growing amusement, clearly entertained by this newest development. “Great shot, little tart,” he jeers from behind his confines. “Truly impressive. Some sorceress you are.” 

The huntsman is close now, so close you can almost already see yourself being run through by those massive curved blades, torn to bloody shreds by them.

There’s only one thing you can think of to save you, one thing that might help you, and he’s currently standing behind a barred door and laughing at how assured your untimely demise is. You grab the cell key from your pocket and toss it blindly at him, your eyes unable to drag away from the horrifying beast right before you. You’re not even sure if it got to him, but you think you heard it clink against _something_ as it landed.

 _Maybe being beheaded and disembowelled by a twin pair of blades isn’t such a bad way to die,_ you attempt to convince yourself as the shadow of the huntsman swallows you up, its massive form eclipsing the light. You turn away from it as your eyes wire shut - you don’t want to see those curved hooks as they tear into you, you just hope they do so swiftly, despite their rust-dulled edges.

But you never feel the bite of those blades. Roars of pain call out through the dusk somewhere above you, and wetness rains down like molten copper, brought on with the sounds of heavy steel sinking again and again into the bluntness of flesh. You turn to stare up at the sound of it, eyes owlish.

Creighton is out of his cell, and he’s somehow crawled up onto the back of the beast, slinging the blade of his axe over and over into the stem of the creature’s neck as he grips hold by the links of chain that bind the creature's torso. His blue eyes are alight and wild as blood sprays back at him, speckling his mask with every savage strike.

You see the moment the creature’s spine is severed, as its muddy eyes lull and roll back in its skull, and with a gasp you barely manage to twist over and throw yourself out of the way in time to avoid being crushed by its monstrous body as it drops like a felled tree, its severed head rolling several feet away from its mangled neck and shoulders and off into the grass.

You suck in a trembling breath as you stare, wide-eyed, from headless beast to ice-eyed man. But Creighton is paying you no mind - no, he’s not quite done with his prey yet. Something has consumed him, a possession of bloodlust and violence, and with his red-painted axe he continues to hack at the huntsman’s felled body, crimson spilth flying back at him with every tireless swing of his giant axe. He grunts like an angry beast with each mad blade stroke, and he doesn’t stop - he doesn’t stop until the huntsman’s thick arm is cleaved clean off, as well as most of one of its fatty legs. He doesn’t stop until he’s coated in a slick spray of blood that paints much of his tabard black with it, until a fine mist of red freckles his steel visor, until a few locks of his tousled, silver hair are dripping with the blood of the beast beneath him. And he doesn’t even seem to notice this baptism of blood he's brought upon himself, nor care of the resulting mess in the slightest.

He’s panting, axe gripped tightly at his side, when he finally breaks free from the grips of bloodlust and turns to look at you instead, one leg still angled upon the mangled, ribboned flesh he’d been hacking away at. His blade drips red, and his icy gaze is nearly glowing. 

And he looks absolutely _fucking_ terrifying.

He lifts the bottom of his mask enough to spit on the corpse of his fallen enemy, before stepping off of its body and coming toward you.

“That was a clever move, tossing me that key,” he broods, coming to stand before you, and it takes every ounce of resolve you can muster not to flee from the mere sight of him. The way he acts so nonchalant about the arterial sprays of red coating his armor, about having just spent more than a sane amount of time savagely dismembering flesh and limbs with blow after blow of his axe, just makes the manner in which he casually strolls up to you now that much more jarring.

This man is… insane. Dangerous. He’s clearly some colorful version of unhinged, as well as a short-fused, bloodthirsty, vengeful madman. 

And you just released him from his cage. Good job.

“But what were you planning on doing if I didn’t get out of that cell in time to save your sorry hide?” he wonders, his icy gaze hooked on you.

For a moment you don’t blink at all as you gawk at him, and then you can’t seem to _stop_ blinking, and for all too long your tongue is tied behind the mounting alarm bells ringing in your head. The ones screaming _run away, what are you waiting for already, psychopath incoming!_

“I… I um… well, I didn't exactly have a backup plan,” you admit, taking an instinctive step back from the man. 

He moves one step forward to replace the distance between you, his eyes creasing with a smile. “I guess that makes me your savior, then. I'm not usually the savior type, but I guess there's a first time for everything. And seeing as how I rescued you…” he takes another step toward you, resting his heavy, bloodied axe casually over one broad shoulder as you stumble yet another step away in return. “I suppose that leaves me with a reward of some kind.” His blue eyes trail over you, shining and starved, and a growing sense of dread trails over every inch of you along with it. “You’re a pretty thing. Perhaps I’ll take a romp with you as my humble thanks.”

He doesn’t wait for you to weigh in with your extreme objections on the matter, instead coming straight away to collect his prize.

The grip on your staff is so wound up with nerves you wonder how it hasn’t simply broken in half, and you brandish it now even though you have no soul arrows left. Stumbling away from Creighton’s possessed gaze, you stammer, “I-if anything we’re even! I saved you too! I-I threw you that damned key!” You teeter over an unruly tree root as you continue backing away from him, but manage to catch yourself before falling over.

He rumbles with low, amused laughter as he slowly hunts you down, apparently in no rush to do so. “What, this old thing?” Pulling out the key from the leather straps cinching his waist, he doesn’t even look at it before tossing it carelessly at your feet. “Here you go; it’s all yours, pretty thing. Don’t really need it much anymore.” His grip shifts on the hilt of his axe as he continues coming toward you. “Now, where were we…”

You falter further away from the madman, your hands trembling so badly you nearly drop your staff, but you manage to shake yourself from the grips of growing terror enough to cast the only spell you have left in your arsenal. It isn’t much, and it surely wouldn't have worked on the huntsman, but it might just save you now.

Your body disappears from sight, and you pluck up the discarded cell key from where it lay on the grass almost on instinct before sidestepping Creighton’s perplexed attempt to grab hold of your disappearing form. He instead grasps nothing but air, blinking a few times at his empty palm in growing confusion.

Slowly and quietly, you slip further away from him as he gradually seems to realize what it is you’ve done. He waves his hand a few more times through where you were previously standing before laughing with a bit of appreciation.

“Well,” he grumbles, amused as his hand drops back to one side. “I have to admit; I wasn’t expecting that.” He turns around, peering sightlessly around the clearing, listening closely to every sound that washes over him, and you freeze completely in your attempts to get away from him in response. It's extremely unfortunate that the bastard can still hear every noise you make with this particular spell, and as such you must be cautious. 

“Would you like to play a little game of hide and seek, then, little sorceress?” he asks, mirth drawing his lips from behind his steel mask. "We can play before I bed you, if you wish. I’m not opposed to pursuing my prey. In fact I rather enjoy it."

He takes a few, careful steps in the direction he thinks you might be, listening intently for you to slip up somehow and betray your location to him. And even though you’re not moving, even though the only sound you can hear is that of your heart hammering in your ears like a frightened drum, the route he’s chosen to pursue you on is alarmingly close to where you actually are. His eyes may not be able to catch hold of you, but some other instinct has, and if you continue standing there like a terrified statue he’s _going_ to run right into you.

There’s no choice, you have to move, _now._ Slinking away as gingerly as you can, you get away enough to avoid bumping into him, even as you swear he looks directly at you, and he walks right through where you might have been standing otherwise. Catching yourself before you sigh with relief - _really? You’re going to get caught because you sighed?! -_ you tiptoe away a few more steps before your boot snaps on a single, dried twig you didn’t notice in time, and you cup a hand over your lips to keep from gasping at the seemingly thunderous sound of it.

Creighton turns at once toward where you stand, one gloved hand wringing into the heavy hilt of the axe resting on his shoulder. “Sneaky, cheeky tart,” he purrs, heading your way. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

At the rate you’re currently going, your hidden body spell is going to wear off before you manage to escape this lunatic. You have maybe ten seconds left to remain hidden in the shadows, so even if you sprint now, you wouldn't make it very far. Perhaps it's better to hide, but where? Where’s the last place he’d look for you? Some place within reach?

You eye the cage in the distance. You could hide in there… perhaps he’d be loath to return to a place he’d been imprisoned for who knows how long. It's your best bet, anyway - you're _only_ bet - and so you furtively make your way toward the place and manage to carefully slip inside without drawing any unwanted attention.

Pressing your back against the curved wall just behind the barred door of the cell, you clasp both hands over your mouth just in case any alarmed squeaks want to startle their way from your lips. And there you wait, wait while your body materializes back into its normal shapes and colors like a mist taking solid form. You feel all too vulnerable with no spells and no sword to save you. Your lungs start to burn like white-hot iron, and it's only then you realize you’ve forgotten to keep breathing, and you force yourself to gulp down a breath. 

And as you do you nearly choke on it, because it’s at that moment that Creighton’s chain-hooded head pops into view like a terrifying daisy popping through the earth, his silver tufts of hair bouncing as he peers from side to side. His pale eyes catch sight of you staring in wide-eyed horror at him, your hands still clinging to your mouth, and his eyes crinkle with delight with the growing smirk you bring him.

“Found you,” he announces, ducking in through the doorway after you, low enough so his giant, blood-drenched axe will fit along with him.

That alarmed squeak you were worried about making finds you now, and you shrink away toward the back of the cage as he watches and smiles. You’re trapped - the only way out of this damned cell is through the doorway he’s now blocking.

And the bastard knows it. He stays put right where he is, just inside the cell, chuckling as he watches you waver in uncertainty near the opposite end. “Well now, looks like you’ve got nowhere else to hide. I guess that makes me the victor of our little game.”

You force your arms to your sides and a glare on your face. You’re determined not to show just how scared you really are at being cornered by someone like him. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Not that it matters much - he seems quite satisfied already with how the current situation is playing out. “So,” he smiles. “Are you going to come over here like a good little bird, or shall I hunt you down and grab you up like a cheeky little brat?”

You have no idea what to do to get out of this situation, and the only thing you can think of is to possibly reason with the madman. It’s a longshot, you know. “Creighton…” you murmur, backing up as he begins slowly closing in on you. 

“Yes, love?” he purrs, pulling his axe from his shoulder to hold in one fist by his side.

You back up further, until you feel the furthest wall of the cell bump into the back of your head, and you reach back to hold onto it as if doing so will somehow aid in you sinking through it. “Just let me go, and I’ll let you live.”

He laughs at that. “You’re not helping your cause any,” he muses, pausing in his advance on you to set the iron of his axe upon the ground. He stoops a bit so he can lay down the weapon with a bit more reverence than you might have expected, and you waste no time in bolting toward the door now left wide open behind him.

He’s quick - he grabs you in one chainmailed arm before you make it past him, your staff falling from your fingers as he does, and with muscular ease you’re tossed up and over one of his broad shoulders, dangling there like some kidnapped maiden in a raided village. You yelp in surprise, before thrashing about as you hang over his back, pounding your fists against his cape as he laughs. His strong arm is firm around your waist, despite your struggles, and you’re not going anywhere.

“ _Let me_ _go!_ ” you scream, writhing as he takes you back to the far end of the cell. He slaps your ass once, laughing as he does, before tossing you like an unceremonious sack of potatoes onto the ground. You land with a heavy _thump,_ gasping as you try and reclaim your lost breath.

“Don’t worry,” he says, as you wiggle on your back and elbows away from him. He bends down and grabs hold of your ankles, dragging you back to him until you’re settled between his sturdy thighs. His eyes glow with lust down at you. “You’re going to like this.”

“Get _off_ of _me!”_

You rain your desperate fists upon his chainlinked thighs, and he effortlessly scoops up both your wrists with one large hand to pin against the ground above your head. His other hand rakes down your body, taking its time to trace along the swells of your breasts, his eyes entranced by the shape of you. 

When he reaches your skirt, he rips the material up to reveal your bare thighs to him, and his gloved hand paws and squeezes at your exposed flesh like he’s starving for it. “I haven’t buried my cock in something this pretty for a long time.”

You twist about beneath him as best you can, but with the weight of his muscle and armor he’s too heavy to wriggle away from, and your wrists are shackled within his grip as if by iron. You spit at him, and he merely chuckles as if the attempt to insult him was adorable. 

“If you lay so much as another finger on me, I’ll gut you navel to neck, you vile heathen!” you snarl, “you filthy rotten bastard!”

His fingers run the band of your undergarments as he chuckles again. “Ooh, I knew I liked you,” he muses, lowering himself over you until his face is inches from your own. His chainmail bites cold against your exposed legs and stomach as his eyes dance between your own. “You’ve a fighting spirit. I wonder how far I can bend it before you break.” He watches the crease of your lips as he guides his thumb over your mouth, dragging the soft flesh of your lips open to him. “And you’ve a vulgar little tongue, too. Perhaps I can put that to good use.”

You don’t care about the chainmail gloves - you bite the bastard, hard, and even though it probably hurts you more than it hurts him, you still smile like a viper when his hand jerks away and he hisses as if stung.

Seizing your jaw, he gives you one sharp shake before squeezing so tightly you whimper in pain. “That actually _hurt,_ ” he growls, though he sounds too fond to be truly mad. “So fiery, little tart. Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

“I hope you die screaming in agony, you repugnant cur!” You manage to rip one wrist free from his grip above your head, and ram your elbow directly between his legs. You’re rewarded for your efforts with a pained grunt and a loosened grip, with which you rip free your other arm and start sliding out from under him. 

“You’re _still_ trying to get away?” he nearly laughs, simply grabbing your thighs and dragging you back before you make it very far. He leans his full weight over you to keep you pinned beneath him, and affectionately brushes a few wild strands of your hair away from your face and behind one ear. “Unyielding little thing. I think I’m falling in love with you.” 

“Get fucked you bastard!”

“I intend to,” he laughs again. He pulls the chainlink glove off of one of his hands, peeling off the leather glove beneath that, which he then stuffs into your sputtering mouth despite your protests, his eyes twinkling like amused sapphires all the while. “Hold on to that for me, will you?”

The long list of every profanity you’ve ever heard of is muffled behind your new gag, and he grins at the sound of it. He shuts you up by bringing his newly bared fingers between your legs, sliding your panties to one side so he can feel your soft flesh. You try to jerk away as his fingertips brush against your most sensitive areas with a fervent curiosity. “Squirm all you like, tart, it won't change a thing,” he says, pulling your undergarments down and off you. “I’m going to make your body fall for me just as madly as I’m falling for you, and we’ll stay here as long as it takes.” His fingertips gently knead against you, searching for just the right spot to tease you, and it almost feels good despite how much you don't want it to. “I’m not going to drive my cock in you until you beg me for it.”

He spreads your lower lips with his fingers, running soft circles around your clit, the friction unlubricated and uncomfortable, and yet it threatens to awaken something in you and you can't let that happen. You jerk against him, but he holds you firmly in place and even uses one thigh to kick your legs wider for him. His blue eyes are fervent on you, wrapped around your every painful wince and change in breath. 

And slowly your body begins to betray you. A treacherous warmth stokes the flickering of darkened flames with his every teasing movement. Slickness slowly builds on Creighton's fingers as he works between your legs, coaxing the flames of that dark fire, and he chuckles when he feels how they glide more easily against you, as your cheeks glow red hot with flustered rage. And with the wetness he’s coaxed from you, his every gentle movement around your clit feels more and more divine, and you struggle with everything you have not to show it. 

You bite down hard on the leather gagged in your mouth to keep from whimpering as you force yourself to glare at him, though your breathing is definitely blowing out of your nose with more and more force, and Creighton seems to love it. His eyes trace over your flushed features with a growing obsession, lighting up like ravenous blue torches in the night. “That’s it,” he breathes as your jaw tightens, and you just barely thrust against his hand without meaning to. “Just like that.”

His praise is like a slap to the face, in the exact same spot your own traitorous body seems to be slapping you repeatedly raw, and you try to squirm away again even though you know it's no use. You’re pinned without any hope of escape, your thighs spread at Creighton’s mercy as he strokes your wetness until you’re swollen and wanting for him.

You moan softly against your gag, and he hums low in his throat as he hears it, his eyes never leaving you. “Well maybe _you_ don’t like me yet,” he teases, low and dark. “But your sweet little cunt sure does.” He slides two fingers into your wetness, and you gasp against your gag as he begins thrusting his fingers into you. You try to scream at him to stop but all that comes out is a muffled, wanting mewl, and he speeds up how deeply his fingers are curling into you in response. "Give into it, love. You know you want to."

You think your jaw might snap with the effort it's taking to keep your many needy sounds from erupting out of you, but you can’t stop the moans that breach the floodgates when his fingers find that one spot that has you arching against his palm while seeing stars. 

Your thighs twitch, opening slightly of their own accord to allow him more access to you. He applies more pressure as he watches with hooded, predatory eyes while you writhe beneath him. “Ah, you’re clinging to my fingers so tightly, love. Your cunt doesn’t want to let me go. Is this where you need me?” he asks, thrusting his fingers against that most sensitive spot inside of you as he watches you succumb to madness with the pleasure of it. You barely remember to continue fighting to look unaffected by what he's doing to you. “Shall I ungag you yet so you can unravel into a pleading, sobbing mess and beg me to fuck you?” he lightly asks as he keeps driving his wet fingers into you. “Or do you require more convincing over just how badly you want it first?”

His taunting brings you back to reality for a moment, and you try to spit his glove out of your mouth so you can scream at him, but he simply shoves it back in, chuckling as if there was something charming about it. "My, you're stubborn. Well, that’s alright." He resumes stroking into you at a faster pace now, and you stifle back a whimper. "I'm stubborn too." You bite down on your gag as you writhe against him, almost as much in an attempt to get away as to increase your friction against those thrusting fingers. 

He kicks your legs further apart so he can easily slip in a third digit, and a muffled cry escapes you.

And it's not long before you can’t help yourself any longer - the coils at your core are so tight, your inner walls clenching for release as he drives his slick fingers into you with more pressure, and you can tell he can see how undone you nearly are just by the feverish look in his eyes. You’re getting close, so close to tumbling over the edge, so close you barely care that it’s this bastard who’s taking you there. Your back arches as you moan against your gag and open your legs more to him. You’re so close, so close you can barely breathe.

And then the bastard jerks you roughly back from that edge you nearly found yourself tumbling off of, pulling his fingers from your wet heat and leaving you feeling utterly stark and empty. Your eyes are strained, and you look up at him in haggard confusion as you struggle to breathe over your uncontrolled panting.

He pulls out your gag, his pale gaze wrapped around you and holding you in place like those of a basilisk. 

“Go on, pretty thing,” he says, his low voice filled with lust. “Beg.”

You stare at him, your jaw aching after being gagged so harshly like that. And to your complete and utter mortification, you find yourself wanting to actually beg this man to fuck you senseless.

He's watching you carefully, and when you take too long to respond he rubs a gentle thumb over your swollen nub, making your whole body tense. "Would you like me to fuck you?" He purrs as you squirm. "To fuck you into the floor of this filthy cell until you can no longer walk straight?"

You bite your lip and don't say a word, eyebrows knitting painfully with the effort.

He quickens his pace ever so slightly until you whimper - teasing you enough to reignite some of the flames of ecstasy, but not enough to engulf you in them. It’s nothing short of torturous, and you can’t stop the needy whimpers that fight for release from your trembling lips. 

"Beg me, you stubborn brat. I know you want to." 

You buck up against him, trying to find your release without having to reduce yourself to pleading with him, but he pins you back down. 

_Fucking fuck…!!_

And you can't help yourself, can't save yourself from becoming reduced to the pleading mess he wants you to be. "Fuck me," you barely choke out, your entire face flushing with humiliation. But even as you hate yourself for it, you desperately want this bastard inside you. Your want for him is consuming every part of you.

Your cheeks flush even more when he just laughs in response. “One more time, love, you make it sound so much better than I thought it would.”

Your heated glare could bore holes through his head. “I _hate_ you!”

He shoves enough of his leathers and armor away to bring his formidable cock out, tossing aside his bloodied tabard. "Good enough," he growls before thrusting into you.

Your eyes roll back and you nearly scream with the pain and relief of finally being filled to the point of bursting, overstretched by his giant cock as he begins rutting mercilessly into you. He doesn't wait for you to ease around his size as he fucks you in furious, long strokes, and every time he does you cry out in pain and pleasure, your every nerve ending on fire as you’re forced open to his abuse.

Incoherent words escape you, almost like you’re speaking in tongues, choked out between broken moans as your whole body twitches with his every thrust. The only words you do understand are fragments of you telling him how much you _hate_ him, though you’re not so sure you aren’t also still begging him to fuck you at the same time.

"I fucking…" you choke out between drawn out moans, writhing to free yourself, to get more of him. "I hate... fucking hate… you… hate you, you vile… _uuhng!_ Don’t stop! Don’t fucking stop–"

He chuckles, plunging deeper into you as he brutally fucks you into the ground. "Oh, how your hatred makes my heart sing," he growls, bowing down so his eyes can linger over yours. "Now tell me, would you like to come on my cock, my spiteful little minx?"

You bite back, before whimpering out, "Y-yes! Oh Gods, yes, please!"

His breaths grow strained as he watches you pleading with him, and he reaches down to jerk your legs wider for him. Every time he drives his cock deeper in you it sends swirling torrents of electric pleasure up your spine that erase every other thought in your mind. Every thought that isn't wanting more of him.

He grabs a rough handful of your hair. "Go on, then."

Every muscle in your body contracts as you quiver around his fervent thrusts, and you cry out as you come so hard against him you nearly lose consciousness for a few seconds. Your eyes roll back as you arch into him, clinging to his strong, chainmailed arms until it hurts.

He continues driving into you, his eyes dark with need, though he expels a single, choked huff of laughter at how completely shattered you look beneath him. “You alright?” he teases, huffing once more when you barely manage to glare past your delirium. His thrusts are relentless, and you’re aching walls are already clinging to him again in their need to undue you yet again. He groans when he feels your quivering tightness grabbing onto him, his eyes dark with desire. “Mm, you’re loving this, aren’t you? You love being pinned down and fucked like a whore.” His laughter is strained over his panting breaths. “You love hating me while I force you to take every inch of me inside of you.” 

You shake your head no, your jaw squared off in denial, and he grabs hold of your jaw to urge you to look at him. “Give me more. I want to watch you break for me again.”

You whimper as his hardness strains against your walls, dragging against them with delicious agony you can’t get enough of. You tighten your grip on his arms again, pulling into his strokes as they become more desperate, more urgent. You crash over the precipice again, crying out as you grab at him as if to never let him go, and you feel his hard length twitch before pulsing heat inside of you. He groans as every last bit of him is spent, as his thrusts grow rough and uneven. And then he collapses beside you, half of his heaving body still on top of you as he turns to slowly gently laugh and snuggle against the crook of your neck.

You stare at the ceiling as you try to remember how to breathe without hyperventilating, and he curls affectionately around you as the two of you come back from your orgasmic heights. 

And then, gradually, as the aftershocks of ecstasy recede from the shoreline of reality, you realize what he’s doing. That he’s snuggling with you. The bloodied madman is snuggling with you. That he’s nuzzling against your neck like an adoring puppy. “I can’t wait to fuck you again, love,” he breaths, reaching up to trace your racing heart rate with his still bare fingers. “My cheeky little thing. We’re going to have so much fun in our travels together.”

_Wait… what?_

Does he honestly think you're going to go about traveling with him?

_Oh, gods…_

He’s trailing his fingertips along your jaw with some kind of adoration. He doesn't... actually believe that he’s _falling_ for you, does he?

He really _is_ a madman! And you need to get away from him, sooner rather than later - now, like right now!

You wriggle away from him, and his cuddly arm and leg fall lazily off of you without protest. You try to stand but your legs wobble too much, and you fall into a crawl, instead. This man has _actually_ fucked you until you can’t walk straight.

And so you crawl, crawl away from this cuddly psychopath as he leans up on his elbows to watch you go. “Sweetheart? Where are you going?”

You crawl out of the cell and kick the door shut behind you, and then you spin around while pawing the key desperately out from your pocket. You drop it once, and it tumbles from your trembling hands down into the grass, but you pluck it up again as quickly as you can to fumble into the lock while still on your knees.

Creighton’s eyes widen as he watches you, and he struggles to push himself up so he can rush forward and stop what you're doing. 

You sink away from the doorway just as you manage to lock it - _just_ as he grabs hold of the iron bars and rattles them a few times, as he gradually realizes just what it is exactly you’ve done. And yet, he still doesn’t seem to actually get it. “Alright, stop teasing me, dove,” he coaxes with a smile as you push yourself onto your feet and away from him. “Give me the key so we can go and find Pate together. I know you’re going to hate that rat as much as I do.” A low, throaty chuckle rumbles his throat. “Yes, you really are going to hate him. And we can kill him together, you and I, and then fuck each other senseless in the blood of our most hated enemy. How does that sound?”

He says it as if you’re about to jump all over the idea, which you’re definitely not.

“No,” you say, brushing some of the dirt off the back of your skirt. “I think I’d rather just leave you in there.”

His blue eyes squint with concern, with misunderstanding. Then suddenly he shouts, “But what about sharing our lives together?!”

“Yeah,” you slowly drawl, not looking at him. “I never agreed to that.” You risk a little glance at him, lips pursed, brows a flat line of resolve. “I don’t do the whole sharing lives with murderous psychopaths thing. I guess you could say I have commitment issues.”

“Are you…” Creighton murmurs, his words catching on slowly budding anger. “You mean to just leave me here? To end things with me like this?!”

You sigh. This man is hopeless. And you start to walk away without another word.

“Sweetheart, wait!” he bangs on the bars of his confinement, and you _almost_ feel bad for the sorry sack, but you don’t turn back. “Don’t you want to kill Pate together?!”

Pate - why does he keep going on about Pate? Ah, well, what does it matter at this point. 

He keeps on shaking the bars of his cage, and slowly it seems to dawn on him that you’re not coming back. He doesn’t like that, and his next bouts are dripping with a newfound vengeance. “I _will_ get out of here! Do you hear me?! I’ll make you pay for this you cheeky little back-stabbing cunt! How dare you leave me in here! I’ll make you pay for stabbing me in the back! I’ll track you down if its the last thing I do you cheeky fucking wretch!”

And well, you can’t really have him doing any of all that, now can you? Best make sure he never escapes, in that case. So where to toss away the key still clutched in one hand...

Over the cliff, then?

_Over it goes._

You toss it into the abyss even as Creighton howls warnings and threats and promises of death after you, and then you continue to walk away - staffless, swordless, and with a newly pissed off arch nemesis who wants to fuck you _and_ kill you. Gods, you hate Huntsman’s Copse.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hate the ending I'm sorry, I literally couldn't help myself :P
> 
> If you like what you read, please feed me kudos!  
> 
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Stalwart and trustworthy Patches  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Eygon of Carim  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Mild Mannered Pate
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	4. Eygon of Carim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested, this one’s about a little gargoyle boy with a heart made of stone. 
> 
> There's some size difference kink goodness, and I guess consent is, uh… slightly dubious? Like… 12% dubious? 8% dubious? I dunno, I'm not a smut scientist.

**♡The smut machine must feast! Next at it's mercy is… Eygon of Carim♡**

  


* * *

  
  
  
  


“Please… touch me…”

“Uh…” You look around, making sure there’s no one else the rather frail looking maiden in white could be talking to. Her eyes are like milky glass, and she blinks into the void her blindness has left her in, waiting with bated breath for someone - you, apparently - to touch the poor girl.

And you thought _you_ were touch starved... 

Well, there’s no one else she could be talking to in this small dungeon, not unless she’s meaning to address one of the skeletons you’ve already made quick work of. And hopefully she’s not, because it would be rather awkward in that case to tell her that her skeleton pals are all dead by your blade.

So you lean down and place a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she shudders at your touch. “Ahh, yes,” she breathes, and you swallow probably harder than you should. You’ve never bedded a woman before, but this odd girl and her desperation to feel your touch is doing strange and unfathomable things to you.

 _You probably shouldn’t take advantage of blind people,_ you gently remind yourself, even as she grasps your hand as if to never let it go.

She smiles at where she senses you to stand. “There you are, so close indeed,” she sighs. “Then I am not entirely alone, not just yet. Praise the merciful gods above…” Her delicate hands tighten around yours. “Your touch has freed me from the darkness,” she murmurs, her brows squinching a bit in thought. “You are a Champion, then, yes? Oh, but forgive me – I am Irina, of Carim. And who might you be, Champion?”

You try to bring your hand away from her, but she refuses to let it go, as if it truly were her only anchor from some great, apparent darkness. So you just give in and let her have it; if your touch really means that much to her, it’s a small token to give. “My name is  **________** .”

“Oh, Champion  **________** ,” she softly says, pulling your hand to cup her cheek as she directs her imploring, glass-like eyes at you. “I was a nun in my homeland, and I wandered here in pilgrimage to become a fire keeper. But I fear I am… weak. Unfit to tend flames. I-if it would not trouble you, might I enter into your service, instead?”

Your lips tighten into a small frown as you watch her pleading with you. You really haven’t much use for a cleric, especially one too weak to become a fire keeper - you don’t exactly dabble with miracles - but… how can you say no to someone looking at you like that?

You can’t. “It would not trouble me in the slightest,” you say, brushing a gentle thumb over her cheek as she smiles with relief and gratitude. 

“Oh, thank you, sweet Champion,” she moves your hand to hold it firmly before her, resolute as she continues, “I shall take my vows to you now, then - that I, Irina of Carim, solemnly swear to serve you, and to teach you any miracles that I might be able.”

 _I fear you won’t be teaching me much, then,_ you think with a dry smile, one you’re glad she can’t see. 

You offer her a homeward bone, pressing it into her small hand as she blindly blinks at you in confusion.

“Champion, what is this? A gift?”

“You could say that,” you say. “Those in my charge gather at the safe haven of Firelink Shrine. Go on,” you prompt, closing her fingers around the gift. “Use it, and I’ll meet you there when I’m able.”

She smiles with such innocence, you truly find yourself wanting nothing more than to protect the poor girl. “Thank you, sweet Champion.” And then she is gone, transported by the bone’s homeward instincts.

You right yourself, running a hand back through your battle-straggled hair. All this trouble fighting through hordes of skeletons and hound rats, just to save this cleric of no particular use to you? Ah, well, you can’t deny you’re happy to see her freed, even if doing so has spent all your estus and left you with a few battered and bleeding gashes. Perhaps you should have asked Irena to heal you before sending her away, but you’ll manage in the meantime.

Using the same rusted old key you used to free Irena, you head toward the nearby light beyond this dank dungeon, unlocking the final barred door to your freedom. Closing your eyes as you step outside, you inhale a long, wistful breath of fresh air, before opening your eyes again only to immediately choke back a horrified shriek. Because right ahead of you, sitting at the edge of the nearby cliff, is a giant man in a beastial, horned mask, and he’s looking directly at you.

But as you cling to your chest like a startled old crone suffering a heart attack, you slowly realize that the man hasn’t moved an inch, and must in fact be an _actual_ stone gargoyle, as his beastly helm might suggest. And it makes sense, really, for surely no one is actually strong enough to walk about clad in all that heavy, stone-like armor, while also carrying that massive great hammer resting perfectly still across its shoulder. Not to mention the heavy looking shield set beside the stone beast, the shape of it so large that you wonder if you’d even be able to drag it along with you should you feel so inclined to take it.

Running a hand back through your hair again, you can’t help but laugh at how easily startled you'd been by a damned stone sculpture, and you approach the thing as it silently watches you all the while. 

Standing before its mighty visage, you slap a congenial hand on the muzzle of the stone beast. “You scared me half to death, my fiendish stone friend.”

“Did I now?”

With yet another frightened squeak, you tear your hand away from the talking statue and nearly trip over yourself with how quickly you attempt to fall back from it.

The statue shifts its grip on that giant hammer across its broad shoulder, humming low in its throat as it watches you trying not to die from a second heart attack. His unamused growl is exactly how a gargoyle should sound. “And it would appear I have done so again. Tell me, do you shriek like a banshee at everyone you meet, or do I alone have this honor?” 

He sits, waiting for you to respond, but your startled heart is still lodged halfway in your throat and you can’t quite manage it. Eventually he scoffs. “How a frail maid like you has survived this long on the front lines, playing the champion, I’ll never know. And yet you’ve managed to go and rescue the girl.” He seems to size you up, though he doesn’t move an inch from his somewhat casual disposition. “I suppose you’re not quite as woeful as you seem.”

Forcing your poor heart to cooperate with you, you finally manage a tight-lipped frown at the man - for he is indeed a man, a rather brawny and somewhat unpleasant one at that. Or, at least, you’re _fairly_ certain he’s a man... and you eye him thusly, trying to figure it out. He still looks and sounds like a gargoyle, after all. Perhaps the face of a beast lies under that gargoyle helm. Perhaps you should knock it off his unruly head and find out.

Maybe another time. “You know her, then? The blind nun, Irena?”

“How do you think someone like her made it all this way?” he asks instead of answers. “And you should know, seeing as how you’ve taken an interest in her, that she’s a lost cause. Beyond repair. Practically useless.”

Your frown deepens. What a charming fellow this monstrous man is. “And you would have me… what? Turn her away because of this? Leave her locked in a dungeon because I have no use of her?”

“A wise woman would.”

“A heartless one, maybe,” you argue, openly glowering now. This bastard is truly poor Irena’s traveling companion? And yet he sits languidly outside her cell, making seemingly no attempts to free her, and advises that you abandon her moments after you’ve managed the task. She’s _blind_ for gods’ sake; this fiendish man is truly as stone-hearted as his appearance would make it seem.

He scoffs again from where he sits in wide-legged leisure, noting the inner turmoil displayed on your face at the thought of abandoning Irena in a place like this. “How very quaint of you, pitying creatures that are beyond help.” 

You eye his giant hammer, folding your arms across yourself as you do. “If you’re truly Irena’s companion, then why is it that you didn’t break down the iron caging her in that horrid dungeon? Surely with a weapon such as that you could have managed such a thing.”

“Surely I could have.”

“So you admit it, then,” you say with growing contempt, your eyes narrowing with it. “You left her to rot in a cell on _purpose?_ ”

“I wouldn’t have allowed her to rot,” the gargoyle assures in his low, throaty voice. “I would have killed her before it came to that, as I promised her I would.”

Blinking back your surprise at such an admission, you hesitate before asking, “You… you would _kill_ her?”

“Without a second thought,” he growls, unaffected by your alarm at the prospect. “As I will you, if you allow the darkness to claim her. It already seeks to undo her, and I will not stand idly by should you seek to speed its course. But seeing as how you instead seek to assure the girl’s safety…” he pushes himself from where he sits, coming to stand before you. The ground trembles with the weight of him, and the shadow of his towering form hides his many features in a bestial eclipse of the light. You have to crane your neck upward just to meet his stoney gaze, and you do, despite how dauntingly close he’s chosen to stand next to you. It’s likely some kind of intimidation technique, like he’s challenging you to face him or to run and hide, and you’re not going to allow him to see just how well it's working. “I am allied to you, faceless Undead, for as long as you can manage to keep the girl safe. And only for that long.”

You force your unease aside as you direct your heated gaze up at him. “Lovely,” you brood sarcastically, refusing to look away despite how intimidating his height is. “I plan to keep her safe in the company of those at Firelink Shrine.” You scowl before adding, “ _Not_ in some cage like an animal, as you’ve seen fit.”

“The manner in which I protect Irena from herself is none of your concern.”

“It is now.”

His brief laughter is nothing short of mocking. “So it is,” he agrees with you despite this. “And it’s just as well. I’m sick of looking after her at any rate.”

“Then leave her to me,” you suggest, wanting nothing more in that moment than to be rid of the beast-like man, and to free your new stead Irena from his uncaring clutches. “I don’t need any alliance with you in order to keep her from harm.”

“And yet you have me as an ally all the same,” he counters. “For I will never abandon the girl.”

You stare, unsure what to even say to that. The man locks Irena up like a dog, and yet refuses to abandon his post as her protector? It hardly makes sense.

“Ensure her safety, and my loyalty is yours,” he tells you. “And you’d do well to remember that this knight of Carim does not forgive betrayal. Such disloyalty will be dealt with by the weight of my hammer.”

“Yes, threats are a great way to begin a new alliance, I always say,” you mutter, folding your arms more snuggly against yourself. 

He actually laughs a bit at that, and the sound of it surprises you. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it doesn’t hold him for long, and he’s soon back to his growling, brooding ways. “Consider it a friendly warning. The only one I’ll give you. I am Eygon, a knight of Carim, and you _will_ see this face of mine that so frightens you again.”

And true to his word, you do, some days later. 

You’ve managed to help make a place for Irena at Firelink, and she seems quite happy to assist you there in any way she can. You try to keep her company for as often as your constant travels allow, stopping by here and there to ask her about miracles you have no intention of learning, though she’s delighted to tell you about them and to help you in any way she can. She even seems to have sparked a friendship with the small statured Greirat; he huddles next to her sometimes, making her laugh, and your heart warms to see it.

You nearly forgot all about the stone-hearted knight that supposedly trailed along in her shadow during her pilgrimage to this land, until he suddenly appears one day like an unwanted stone in one’s boot.

You turn a corner on your way to speak with Greirat about whether or not he’d like to head out in search of better supplies, and there he is - Eygon and his fiendish helm, leaning with burly arms folded across his sturdy chest, as if he's been waiting for you to cross paths with him.

His massive size and that gargoyle helm of his startles you once again, but you refuse you let him see that. He’s seen you startled more than enough. You instead fold your arms, a stance mirroring his own, and raise your questioning brows. “Well, what a pleasant surprise. Perhaps you haven’t abandoned Irena’s side after all. Unless you’ve simply come here to attempt to convince me again that I should do the same?” His lack of response to this makes you smirk; perhaps you’ve struck a cord with him. Well, good, he deserves it. “I’m afraid there’s no cages in which to imprison her around here, so you’re out of luck on that front.”

“I’ve no purpose for any such cages now,” he assures in his low growl. “Not with you looking after her. I just dropped in to rest for a time, and to see how she’s getting on.” He turns toward Greirat as the small, hooded man passes and offers a friendly wave. Eygon scoffs at the sight of it. “What are you playing at with this circus?” He turns next to Hawkwood, whose head is in his hands as he laments and mumbles something about the Abyss. “This cesspool of doddering oldfolk and degenerates.” The tall and monstrous knight huffs with briefly amused laughter. “I have to say, it couldn’t be better. She must fit in perfectly here.”

“I’m so happy you approve,” you drawl, only _slightly_ offended by his description of you and yours. “And for how long does our circus of degenerates have the pleasure of your warm company?”

“Not long,” he tells you. “Now that I’ve assured the girls safety, I mean only to rest the night, and to rid myself of the filth and scores my weapons and armor have suffered in my time abroad; then I’ll be on my way. Though if you’re wondering because you wish to be rid of me,” he adds, “you should know I will be coming by this circus as often as need be to make sure Irena is safe. In other words, you’ll never be rid of me, and you’d best get used to that.”

Your teeth grit behind your forced smile. “Great. Looking forward to it. Well then,” you turn halfway to dismiss him. “Don’t let me stop you from all that shield buffing and napping you need to do.”

He scoffs. “You give yourself far too much credit, unkindled maid. You couldn’t hope to stop me from anything.”

You roll your eyes while walking away from him. “A pleasure as always, Eygon.”

You turn the corner and pretend to keep walking away, hiding there as you listen for which direction he intends to take. The sounds of his heavy armor and weighted footsteps saunter away somewhere toward the firekeeper, and you safely take off in the opposite direction, hoping to never cross paths with that aggravating stone knight again during his brief stay here. If he calls you an unkindled maid one more time you may just stab him in the throat, and that surely wouldn’t be good for the shaky alliance the two of you share.

With Eygon expertly avoided, you return to much more important tasks. You wander off to discuss trade with Greirat, and then sit and stare at Blacksmith Andre for a while as he endlessly hammers steel without a shirt on - hey, _you_ didn't tell him to do so shirtless, and you're not as blind to all those trembling, steel-pounding muscles as poor Irina - before deciding you'd like to rinse off in the nearby pond beyond the Cemetery of Ash. Rain swept through the area several days prior, and you’d like to take full advantage of the overfilled pools of fresh water before settling in for the evening. 

Readying your short sword as you leave the safety of the Shrine, you’re fully prepared to take out any wandering hollows you know will be on your path to the small, lush pond you've taken a liking to, only to find that those nearest the Shrine are all already dead, their bodies tossed aside like empty sacks. In fact, they’re all dead, every hollow in the clearing - you follow their trail of bodies in growing confusion, all the way through the Cemetery of Ash and to the stream beyond it. You’re not exactly complaining about this, it’s just… well, odd. 

And then you see the reason for this oddness, for someone else has apparently done your dirty work for you, and that someone else is also bathing in _your_ secret pond.

You’ve never seen him before, and you’re certain you’d remember if you had, because he’s nearing on gargantuan and he’s objectively handsome. 

Okay, _fine_ , he’s exceptionally handsome. 

He has a strong jaw, and a face rough with stubble, angled and creased in the most fortunate places. His eyes are a deep brown, their color matching the mess of thick hair he’s tried unsuccessfully to tuck behind one of his ears. And he’s also completely and gloriously naked as he stands in the middle of the pond, his height halfway out of the water as he cups handfuls of water over his burly, muscled arms to lather himself clean with.

You dive behind a bush, wavering there a bit as you watch him cleaning himself, his strong back turned to you now. And as you stare you wonder if you should simply scurry away before he takes notice of you ogling him like some kind of perverse bush creature, or if you should rather continue on with your plans to bathe despite his presence. 

The debate doesn’t take long, and you’re soon slipping out of your skirt and pulling off your robe as silently as you can, thinking that if anything, this man should be the one to leave _you_ to bathe in peace - this is _your_ secret pool, after all, and he’s just some stranger who happened upon it.

He turns at once to the sound of you entering the water, and stares at you in surprise as you make your way toward him, your body hidden beneath the waves as you lower yourself to swim. Well, he's either staring in surprise, or maybe he's just glaring at you, you're not really sure. 

Okay, he’s definitely glaring at you - it’s all too obvious as you wade closer to where he stands, his every muscle rigid in protest of your arrival. Well he’s a friendly sort, isn’t he? Jeez, what'd you ever do to him... _He’s_ the one trespassing.

Ah, well - guess you’re not sharing your secret little pool with sorry old him, after all - he can get lost.

"You know," you begin rather conversationally, despite his obviously sour mood and your own annoyance. You curl up lower into the water so that your chin sends out a few ripples across its surface as you eye the tall man. "This pool basically belongs to me. I come here often, and I’ve always had the place all to myself. And although I appreciate the quick work you’ve made of our hollowed friends back there,” you gesture with a loose thumb behind yourself. “I’ve no interest in sharing, nor in giving up my bathing rights. So...” you grace him with a most sarcastic smile. “Go and find your own place to bathe.”

He continues to glower at you, his strong jaw squared off with annoyance, but he doesn’t say a word. Not that he really needs to - his steadfast message of ‘I’m not going anywhere’ is undoubtedly clear.

_Okay... fine._

It’s not like you can _force_ him out of the water - the man is huge, at least twice your size - and so you glower a bit more at him, lingering just above the water like a bitter alligator, before finally relenting to the inevitable and letting out a long sigh of defeat. Strangling your hair back with one hand, you mutter, “Very well. Apparently you haven't manners enough to scurry along to somewhere else better suited for you.” You roll your eyes when he simply continues to glower at you. “Well at least tell me your name, if we’re to share a pool with one another, as well as where it is you’ve come from. Because like I said, I come to this pool often, and I’d like to know if I’ll be subjected to your annoying presence only this once, or if you mean to trespass where you don’t belong time and time again. I’m more fond of the former, for the record."

He stares at you for quite a while, for so long you begin to wonder if he somehow didn’t hear you. And then slowly, so slowly you almost don’t pick up on it, the thin, agitated line of his mouth flickers with some kind of amusement. And even more slowly, he gradually begins to smile - it’s a small smile, but a smile nonetheless, and his dark eyes seem to radiate with it as he continues to study you without a word. 

You wait for him to say something - anything - but he never does. Maybe he's mute? Or perhaps just an irritating asshole wishing to toy with you while he wanders around in _your_ stream? Surely he’s not deaf, for he heard you enter the water.

You try again. "I'm  **________** , " you tell him, seeking to break through the quiet awkwardness he's decided to leave you in. Yet he seems content to keep on leaving you there, giving you nothing more than an even broader smile that creases his dark eyes. He seems quite entertained by something, which only serves to irritate you further, because there's nothing funny about him trespassing in your pond. One of your brows arches in question, and with a scowl you prompt, “This is the part where you tell me _your_ name, you silently bothersome oaf.”

But, quite _shockingly_ , he doesn’t tell you his name. He doesn’t say a damned thing, and that devilish, handsome smile of his makes your stomach tighten, as does his uncouth staring, enough so that you swiftly decide that perhaps wading into a pool with a naked stranger wasn’t such a great idea after all.

“Fine, then,” you brood, meeting his inexplicable amusement with an irate growl. You stand to your full height in the water in order to glare down at him with all the ire you can muster. You're far too frustrated to care that your breasts are fully exposed because of this, or that he’s now openly fascinating over them. That smile of his falters a bit upon seeing your wet, dripping flesh right in front of him. “Keep your name and your pool, and you better not still be here when I come back!”

You turn to slosh away from him, your hands balled into fists, but his hand on your forearm stops you from making it very far. He spins you around before letting go, giving you a little half-smile as he gestures broadly about the pond surrounding the pair of you, as if to tell you there’s plenty of room for the both of you to stay and bathe together.

Well, perhaps the man really _is_ mute, since he seems unable to actually speak, though your gaze is still somewhat suspicious. You fold your arms across your nudity as you eye him, telling yourself your annoyance with him is justified either way, because he’s still somehow overly amused by you for some unknown reason, and the fact you can’t place exactly why that is just makes him all the more aggravating. 

“Fine, then," you grumble. "I suppose you might actually be mute. And I suppose we could share my pond together, as well. Just the one time.” You sink back down below the waterline, while also raising one hand from its surface to point an accusatory finger at him. “As long as you stick to your own side, that is! I get this side," you wave about most of the pond, before pointing to a shallow, muddy corner near the far end, "and you can have that side, I suppose. And you will also keep your eyes to yourself. I won’t permit any debauched gazes, even from someone as objectively handsome as you.”

His smile twitches at that, before the edges of it crook a bit mischievously. 

_Oh, so_ that’s _how he’s going to play things, is it?_

You fold your arms again beneath the water, fixing him with a stern gaze. “I’m serious.”

His smile is nothing but trouble, and so you splash him.

“Stop smiling at me like that!”

But the man is relentless. He reaches out for you, tugging you toward him until your naked body is flush with his own, and he even grabs a handful of your ass in his giant’s hand to give you a playful squeeze. 

Letting out a scandalized gasp, you push away from his strong arms, which he allows with a smirk. “You, sir, are neither knightly nor a gentleman!”

He laughs at that, his amusement husk and throaty, and the sound of it is oddly… familiar. So much so that it gives you pause, and you stop being scandalized to stare at him a bit curiously as you try to figure out just why that is.

He wades over to you as you contemplate, and you don’t realize he means to grab you again until he actually does so. He snakes one large hand around your waist to pull you close against him, while his free hand moves to tuck a strand of your damp hair behind one ear. His deep, umber eyes swirl thick like honey, trapping you within their depths and distracting you completely from anything else you might have been wondering about. And then he leans down and kisses you, and you give into the softness of his lips without a moment’s hesitation, as if you’d somehow been expecting this silent stranger to kiss you all along.

He bites your lip, not hard exactly, but enough to make you gasp in surprise, and he takes that opportunity to go from gentle to openly devouring. His tongue slips into your mouth, seeking after your own as he explores the taste of you with more earnest. Bringing you closer still against him, he deepens your kiss until you can hardly remember to breathe. 

Your hands find his strong waist, your fingertips exploring the indents of muscle there, until finally you rip your mouth free of his hunger enough to try to catch your breath. You stare up at him as he watches you with that silent, barely-a-smile of his. 

“I don’t normally…” you hesitate, struggling with what to say. This is moving so fast - you don’t even know this man’s _name_ and yet your naked bodies are close to becoming tangled up in one another. You swallow something seemingly lodged in your throat as his hands roam your waist. He waits patiently for you to continue wherever it was you were headed with that half-formed sentence, but his hands gently brushing down over the swells of your ass distracts you entirely from whatever in any hell _that_ was.

“This is… foolish, isn’t it?” you question, though you don’t wait for him to respond - not that he even would. Your toes slip through the mud as you push up to reach your arms around his neck and pull him down into another kiss, abandoning any other attempts to reason your way out of this. You haven’t been intimate with someone in far too long, and his warm skin brushing against yours is already taking you past any place logic or reason could hope to save you from. Who cares if you don’t know this man; his hold on you is mesmerizing and you want nothing more than more of him.

And he seems even less likely to object to this sudden, passionate encounter between strangers than you are. You feel his growing hardness bobbing against your stomach already as his lips travel toward your ear, and he sucks your earlobe between his lips, flicking his tongue over it as you let out a breathy noise that instantly inspires embarrassed heat to your face.

He chuckles, but your embarrassment doesn’t dissuade him. In fact if anything, the way he’s managed to fluster you just drives him on. He keeps lapping his heated tongue against your skin, tugging your earlobe with his teeth as you slowly melt in his arms.

Picking you up from the bottom of the pool, he cups his large hands under you to keep you rooted against him as he guides your lips back to his. You pull yourself closer against him at his behest, wrapping your legs around his torso as you do, though you pull your lips away in a slight panic when you feel his hard length twitch between the two of you, rubbing against your inner thigh. 

He’s too caught up to notice, his lips drifting toward your jawline to suck and bite possessive marks into your flesh, and although his dexterous mouth has you trembling and aching even more for him, you can’t be distracted from that hardness against your thigh. 

And so you try to ignore the heat of his open mouth exploring your flesh, attempting instead to glance down and see just how heavily endowed this bobbing, eager cock against you really is. You can’t really tell through the water, but if the size of the man himself is any indication... you may be in over your head here. You’re honestly so worried by how large he feels against your thigh that you simply reach in and grab him without a second thought, if for no other reason than to put your mind at ease.

He lets out a breathy groan as your fingers wrap around his hardened cock, at the same moment you gasp of shock. What, did you grab his _arm_ by accident? There’s no way something like that is fitting inside of you!

And yet some part of you wants to try - some utterly foolish part of you that doesn't care if you lose all ability to walk afterward. In fact, you may just walk with a limp for the rest of your days. And maybe you don’t care.

He surely doesn’t. His cock twitches in your hand before he thrusts against it, his own hands kneading into your flesh as holds you against his waist. You reward his thrusts with a few strokes along his massive length, and his breath grows strained. Suddenly, he pulls your hand away to press his length instead against your inner thigh again, rocking against you until his hardness strokes against your growing slickness. 

You stifle a moan as you roll your hips against him, sliding your swollen lips up and down his hard length. The water splashes gently around the two of you as he squeezes your ass more firmly and aids in your every rocking motion against him, building more and more friction as you do.

He can’t seem to take much more of it - he shifts you up a bit higher against him so he can carry you off toward the shoreline, kissing down your neck as he does. You’re both dripping wet as he brings you out of the water to lower you back against a nearby tuft of grass. 

He leans you back while crawling on top of you, his muscled thighs angling between your legs. And then he watches you for a moment, his deep, dark eyes staring down into yours, his lips barely parting, and for a moment it almost looks like he wants to say something. 

Instead, he leans down to kiss you again, as one large hand travels down your naked torso. He brings his well endowed length against your lower lips, and you tense up immediately at the sensation. Hesitating at your unspoken objection, he pulls his mouth back from yours to watch you as his attention catches hold of your nervously shifting expression. 

Biting at your lip with a new blossoming of nerves, you meet his gaze while again questioning whether or not attempting to fuck this giant man and his giant cock is nothing short of folly. But that undoubtedly foolish, all-so-ravenous part of yourself, buried in some carnal recess of your mind, insists in quite a frenzy that you not only drive this man’s cock into you, but that you waste absolutely no time in doing so.

You gently arch your back into the smoothness of his cock pressed against you. “I…” you breathe, searching his eyes for some kind of understanding. “Go slow…”

He tucks some unruly hair behind your ear, waiting as if he thinks you might change your mind. When you don’t, he lightly rests his forehead against yours, before gently guiding the head of his arousal again between your folds. 

You wince as his thick head breaches you, whimpering as it forces you open to him, and he pauses for a moment. He waits for you to slowly adjust to him, angling to brush open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder. His lips send a new flush of arousal through you, and it helps to ease you more comfortably around his size. 

Carefully, he pushes forward and into you a bit more as he continues sucking at your throat, and you cry out at the pain and the sweet agony of it. Your walls are screaming in their attempt to stretch around him, and yet somehow also clinging to him in their need for more. 

He hesitates again, and you grab his face in your hands so you can bring his warm, brown eyes to yours. His sculpted brows are drawn with slight apprehension, and you kiss him passionately to erase any such qualms. “Keep going,” you whisper against his lips, and slowly he presses into you another inch as you moan against his mouth. He captures your lips in a fervent kiss as you squeeze his broad shoulders for dear life, your fingers strained as you grip into his flesh. You’re surely leaving crescent-shaped claw marks in his skin that might well begin to bleed, and your eyes are stinging with flustered tears with how overfilled you are to accommodate his girth. And yet your slick walls tremble to welcome more of him, and he gently obliges, inch by agonizing inch, until with a low, wanton growl and one final thrust he’s buried to the hilt within you.

He remains like that, his oversized cock forcing you to accommodate him, filling you completely, and you writhe a bit against the throbs of pain and pleasure it brings you. You’re filled in such an intense way that it shoots fleeting jolts like fire and ice up your spine that make you flinch and melt simultaneously. A shaky whimper escapes you as you cling to his arms, and he leans down to part your lips with his in an unhurried, gentle kiss. His tongue guides yours in a languid dance that soon has the both of you breathing harder against one another.

Gradually, your wringing hands start to relax, and the overwhelming heat of your walls stretching to be filled by him eases into something more relaxed, more pliant. Your handsome, silent stranger seems to pick up on this, and without a word he slowly begins to thrust and pull his giant cock within you. His movements are small, meant to ease you into it, and yet the gentle tug at your walls has you crying out as a sudden wave of intense pleasure hits you, overpowering every other thought. 

He groans against your neck with the effort it seems to be taking to remain gentle with you, and slowly his careful thrusts become longer, more persistent in his need to repeatedly fill you. You make no move to slow him and so he continues, eliciting a few broken moans from you as your back arches to meet his movements. 

His girth ignites fire within you, spreading you open to him, pressing and dragging against areas you didn't even know existed, ones that electrify you with their every assault. He slips one hand under the small of your back to guide you to an angle in which he can drive his massive length into you even further, and you cry out as your body aches to allow it. He plunges into you with less and less restraint, his dark curls falling in a mess across his brow as he stares down at you with hooded, hungry eyes.

The low, throaty moan you bring him is met with the helpless mewls he drives from you with every thrust of his giant cock within your overstretched core. He seems to be driven wild by your pleading sobs as you find yourself begging that he keep going, and he forgets any semblance of self-control as he begins hammering into you at a soon feverish pace, his hard length stretching you open more deeply in his urgent need to fill you.

You open your legs more to him as he takes everything from you, and it's more than you can bear. His thrusts topple you over the edge, and you grab onto him as drawn out moans fall from your lips. Your slick, abused walls shudder and convulse around his length as you come so hard your legs spasm with the effort to contain it. 

And as you ride each violent, blissful wave his long thrusts gives you, your clinging heat pulls a strangled moan from his throat, and he finds his own release within you, his hardness throbbing as your spine arches into him. Every tremor of your clenching walls strokes him through his completion until he's spilled of every ounce of pleasure within you, and he’s left bowing over you as he seeks to reclaim his breath.

As you both fall back from ecstasy, panting against one another, his thrusts grow gradually more shallow, and he ceases driving within you entirely before slowly pulling out of your wet heat, letting out another low groan as he does so. Holding himself above you in a way careful not to crush you under his heaving, sweat-slicked body, he bows down against your shoulder to place a few gentle kisses along your moist skin.

You smile a bit up at him when he pulls away to look at you, your eyes catching his as he smiles a bit back. 

“I wish I knew your name, at least,” you muse, more to yourself than to him, since he can’t very well respond. “And perhaps the name of your giant cock as well, since we’ve become so familiar.”

He laughs at that. “I’ve told you my name before, and the name of the giant cock you’re so fond of is Morne’s Hammer.”

Your eyes widen to a ridiculous degree as you gape up at this man and his growing smirk.

That voice. That fucking voice. That husky, gargoyle’s voice. 

“E-Eygon?!” you sputter incredulously from under him, and he chuckles.

“Ah, see?” he teases, brushing some hair away from your forehead as he smirks down at you. “You do remember my name, after all.”

You’re too shocked to immediately react, and he chuckles some more as he pushes himself off of you and wanders over to some nearby bushes, in all his bare-assed splendor, to stoop down and fish out his leather leggings.

He steps into them, wiggling them up his powerful legs as he turns back to laugh some more at how ridiculously dumbfounded you look.

You pick up the nearest, fist-sized stone you can find and huck it at him, scowling as he easily ducks under the blow. “You… you lying scoundrel!” you shout with growing wrath. “You lied to me about… about being you!”

“Did I?” he muses with a throaty, thoughtful hum. “I didn’t say a word, much less a lie.”

You grab up another rock, and with his pants pulled on but still loosely unfastened, he comes toward where you sit. You throw the rock against his textured stomach, and it bounces off him without his even so much as flinching.

“How dare you not announce yourself the second I laid eyes on you! You treacherous, stone-hearted–“

He grabs you by the wrist with one hand and pulls you up to him, while the other snakes up the back of your neck and draws you into a heated kiss. You surrender to the familiar warmth and taste of this man you thought a stranger, and he chases your tongue with his a moment more before he pulls away with a satisfied little smirk. 

“Why don’t you run along and warm my bed for me at Firelink, and I’ll join you when I’ve finished up here.” He nods toward the bushes that hide the rest of his clothing and belongings. “I wish to tend to the integrity of my hammer away from the circus, but I won’t keep you waiting for long. On this you have my word.”

You stare between his handsome, dark eyes, almost not believing your own ears. “You… you wish to share a bed with me?”

“See how well she listens?” he says, a little smile on his lips. And then he releases you, giving you a little nudge in the direction of Firelink. “Let’s see how well she obeys.”

With a look strangled by disbelief, you turn to wander back to the pile of your discarded clothes without managing to protest, only to have your bare ass slapped by this wayward, beastly knight.

With a startled gasp, you spin around at once, and he bites his well-shaped lips with a grin at the pink flush on both your face and on your ass in the wake of his heavy palm.

"You obscene, tiresome, vulgar….” you aren’t even sure what other insults to throw at him by this point, especially since he doesn’t seem to care in the least about anything you call him. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of an honorable knight?!”

“Indeed I am,” he muses. “And may both Morne and Caitha have mercy on me for what else I intend to do to you tonight.” He smiles again as your cheeks burn hot enough to spark flames. “Now run along, and when I come to find you in my bed, I expect to find you as naked as you are now, wanting and waiting to curl about me in a way I now know you to enjoy as much as I do.”

Your lips part as if to object, but your racing heart can find no objections, let alone give voice to any. Despite yourself, you'd perhaps like nothing more than to curl up with this giant knight in his bed. And so you simply spin away again without another word, grabbing up your clothes with a huff as you hurry away before he can slap you on the ass another time. His low, amused laughter trails after your nude retreat, along with his rather brazen appreciation of the show you’re giving him while doing so.

You’ve perhaps never met such an unchaste, bewildering, or aggravating knight in all your life, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to seek out the warmth of his bed the second you return to Firelink.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what you read, please feed me kudos!
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Stalwart and trustworthy Patches  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Mild Mannered Pate
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	5. The Cleric Arc - part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gotten a little carried away with this one guys…
> 
> As such, this is a multiple chapter arc, that I'm calling 'The Cleric Arc', featuring a shiny, brand new timid cleric reader. 
> 
> I dunno if anyone but me is gonna like this arc, it's darker than previous chapters, but I'll get back to the hijinks of cheeky sorceress reader after this is finished! 
> 
> –--There's graphic violence, non/con, slavery, impiety, implied or specified loss of virginity - you've been warned!! –--

♡This arc features multiple characters, the first being…. Trusty Patches♡

  


* * *

Despite your best efforts to the contrary, you’re exactly what everyone seems to think you are. They don’t have to say it - it's written in their eyes, spelled out by their pitying, derisive gazes.

You’re pathetic. A pitiful thing who stumbles with her words, who second guesses herself constantly. Weak. Scared of what’s out there, of what people can do to you if you let them too close. Frightened of what lingers in the dark, and especially in that darkness all humans foster in their hearts despite themselves. That unbidden darkness that thwarts your attempts to be perfect. To be nothing but good, gentle, and kind hearted despite any feelings of anger or jealousy or contempt that threaten to rear their ugly heads. 

But despite the darkness, you do manage kindness, to your own detriment even. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t also utterly pathetic. Your head is often bowed down like a frightened church mouse, and upon it you wear a crown of weakness.

It’s not your fault, surely… It can’t be helped that you have a constant fit of nerves fighting under your every surface, like scittering creatures trying to break free, like even _they_ can’t stand you. You can’t seem to stop the wavering your voice does when people try to be too friendly, or ask you something that requires you to speak about yourself. To be personal like that makes you more nervous than you can bear. It doesn’t help that you’re not exactly a brave person, and maybe that’s what everyone who looks down on you is ultimately picking up on.

That you’re, perhaps above all else, overly meek. You’re a coward. You are.

Everyone you meet seems to think so, including yourself. Especially yourself. But one man doesn’t seem to see you that way... You’re not entirely sure _what_ he sees, but it's something you wish you could see, too. 

He’s the only person you’ve ever felt… light, around. A knight you met one day by chance. He tells you his name is Solaire, and he doesn’t stop talking even when you nervously look away from him as he speaks. Doesn’t leave you in a hesitant, awkward silence everyone else does when you’re unable to keep your gaze on them. He treats you like you’re his equal, even though you’re not; even though you’re just a frightened, frail girl with only timid kindness and healing miracles to give. He’s warm, and… kind. He laughs when he’s around you; a real laugh, one that erupts right out of him, the kind that makes his stomach ache with a sort of joy that only genuine laughter can. People don’t normally laugh like that at all, and especially not around you. And the sound of it is a balm to your tattered, timid spirit. And when you’re around him, you feel a little less scared. You even feel… brave, you think, though you’re not really even sure what that’s supposed to feel like. But you feel something; something that spins your heart in a web of light. Something that makes you meet his hidden smile with one of your own, despite yourself. 

He tells you he seeks the sun, and yet he already has something like sunlight inside himself, and you want nothing more than to bask in his warmth.

But your time together is short. He gives you a gift with which to find him once again, and then your paths divert, and the light of his presence fades into the darkness left behind it. You want nothing more than to find his light again, to help him on his lonely journey, as he had offered to help you in yours. But as your time alone continues and your path takes you onward, you’ve yet to stumble across anything more than the world's usual darkness.

Even now you think of him, and sometimes you can even remember what his laughter sounded like. It sings in your mind every now and then, tickling your heartstrings, and you always smile when it does.

You can’t manage to hear it now, though, alone in your descent through these harrowing Catacombs. 

It’s treacherous here, and lonely, and not somewhere you wish to continue by yourself, though you force yourself to press forward. You’d hoped to find Solaire’s glowing sigil somewhere in these depths, but it’s becoming clearer to you that you really are all alone down here.

Well, not _all_ alone.

You were about to turn back from what was sure to be another dead end, to retrace your path back through the scattering of graves leading toward Firelink, when you first saw him. A different sort of man. A rather peculiar and cheerful one; a man clad in leather armor, black as mottled ink. And though his laughter is given freely, it lacks the honest weight that Solaire’s had. 

It doesn’t make you smile. It makes you nervous. 

And this laughter is the first thing you hear, followed by his pleasant greeting. “Oh, hello there!” the man in black says the second your head pops into view atop a stone ladder. 

You nearly fall back off its carved handles in surprise, and the man in black’s growing smirk makes you think perhaps he’d have liked nothing more than to watch you slip and tumble. 

_No, surely that’s not true…_ You reason past your startlement. Though... perhaps it is. It would be easier for him to look down on you that way, after all, like all the others. Even your cleric companions back at Firelink seem to stand taller than you do, so that their gazes might fall upon you.

“Watch your handling, there, darling!” the man in black calls, biting back a grin. “The damn place is _slick,_ what with the constant spray of this old thing,” he gestures toward the roaring waterfall behind him as it pours itself into the belly of the Catacombs. 

As he continues watching you clamor up the rest of the ladder to meet him, he makes no moves to aid you, which you find rather inconsiderate if truth be told - though you immediately chastise yourself for making judgement of someone you hardly know. He’s probably wary of you; you _are_ a stranger, after all.

Brushing off your hopelessly dirtied cleric robes upon safely reaching the top, you offer the stranger a small, demure smile. “Yes, thank you for the warning, um… friend,” you tack on feebly, not sure what else to call him. “This is indeed a slippery place.”

“Oh yes, a lot of slippery things afoot down here,” the man agrees, rubbing the back of his smooth, bald head with one gloved hand as he sizes you up a bit. “Well, you look reasonably sane. And that pretty dress of yours…” one sharp eyebrow hints with suggestion. “You’re not a cleric or something, are you?”

“I am,” you admit with a slight smile, impressed he was able to tell so quickly. “Do you require aid of some kind?” When he doesn’t respond right away, you take a few tentative steps toward him. Perhaps he’s lingering alone in these Catacombs like yourself because he’s wounded? And if so, you’d be more than happy to assist him.

“I yet have some miracles of health to spare, though I admit with how long my journey’s been–”

You halt in surprise as he cuts you off, waving your offer away. “No, no none of that! Blimey, you only just met me and you’re already trying to sick your prayers on me? At least ask for my _name,_ first.”

Your cheeks warm with embarrassment for having apparently overstepped. “O-oh, I’m sorry… of course, my name is, um… it’s ________, sir, and who might you be?”

His smirk crooks upward along one edge. “Had to think about that for a second, did you? Did you actually almost forget your own name?” He gives you that laugh that makes you nervous for whatever reason, though you fight not to let it. He seems friendly enough, after all. “Well, what a pleasure it is, to make new friends in places such as this, even with someone who can’t remember their name. I’m Trusty Patches, new-friend. And since we _are_ indeed friends now, allow me to give you a little advice!” He walks toward you, and his intense gaze is too much for your shyness to handle - so you look down a bit awkwardly, staring at the dirt below you instead, as he laughs yet again. You wish he would stop laughing like that.

“Well aren’t you a timid thing,” he says, and you see his dark, leather boots stop in the dirt right in front of you. “You don’t have to act so goody-goody around me, darling cleric. I’m no tattletale, trust me. I’m your good friend Patches! And I won’t tell a soul you fell off that straight-laced path of virtue you goody two-shoes clerics seem so fond of lugging about with you.” He chuckles a bit. “Go on, say a few curses or something - live a little! It can be our little secret.”

You shake your head at his boots. “I’m… sorry, I’m sort of... well, timid, even though I… Forgive me sir - _Patches,_ I mean... I, um…” you shift your own feet against the dirt.

He takes a gentle hold of your chin and tilts your face to look at him, his gray-blue eyes glistening with amusement as he studies you. “You bumbling thing,” he scolds, though he sounds more curious than anything. “What do you get out of the whole virginal act, anyway? Be real with me for a minute. Do the lot of you just get off on that whole ‘holier-than-thou’ rubbish? Really, it seems so _tiresome!_ ”

You hardly know what he’s talking about, and your confused gaze flickers over his curious one. “E-excuse me?”

He studies you a second more before, his brows briefly drawing into a perplexed knot. Eventually, though, he lets go of your chin with an impatient sort of scoff, and the sound of it whips you despite how little you know the man. Surely his opinion of you shouldn’t matter so much, and yet you always seem to care about _everyone’s_ opinions of you, and his seeming disapproval lashes out at you in the same way as everyone else's.

“Well it’s a pretty decent performance, I’ll give you that much,” he grumbles, giving you another once over, before a broad, friendly grin finds him once again. “ _Anyway_ , keep your healing and miracles and prayers and whatnots for, uh… you know, the poor folk who need them.” His teeth smile into view as he continues, “In fact, I believe I saw a few sorry sacks in need of all that redeeming and holy knickknackery of yours flittering about down in these catacombs earlier. _All the way_ down there–” walking closer to the precipice before the waterfall, he casts a downward glance into the catacomb’s shadowed depths. “Yup,” he says again, his playful gaze returning to you. “ _Definitely_ some sorry sacks down there, just waiting for all those helpful prayers of yours. There’s even some treasure for you, if I’m not mistaken!”

You offer him a little smile. “I’ve no need for treasure, to be perfectly honest, but–”

“No need for treasure?” he cuts off, sounding just short of scandalized. He acts like you’re somehow trying to fool him, and his brows twist with confusion yet again as he tries to figure out just how you mean to pull a fast one on him. “Just what kind of cleric _are_ you? Don’t you need to offer up all sorts of shiny coins and things to those gods of yours?”

“I… well I offer them my devotion, and my… my service, and…” you look away from him, rubbing one arm as you do. “I’d like to think that’s enough to satisfy them…” Shaking your head with a bit of apology, you face downward again and mutter, “I’m sorry, good sir - _Patches_ , I mean - I don’t mean to… sometimes I’m not as well spoken as I should be. I don’t mean to offend you, if I have in some way, and I beg your forgiveness for doing so.”

He’s silent, and you don’t dare look at him. Not until he eventually lets out an annoyed huff do you raise your gaze once again, only to see him staring you down. He’s no longer smiling. “Why, you’re even more oh-so-perfectly pious than that other girl one, Reah, or whatever her bloody name is... more so even than that aggravating Petrus fellow in fact, aren’t you.” He studies you as if you’re some kind of unfathomable puzzle he must solve, and his lips press tight when you don’t respond right away. “Did you not notice it’s only you and I down here, darling?! There’s _no one to judge you_ if you wanna stray a bit off that straight-and-narrow of yours for a moment!” 

You risk another glance at him. “I’ve… noticed this, that we are… alone, yes. I’m sorry, I don’t see your point, sir… _Patches_...”

He lets out a sigh, then offers up a little shrug. “Ah, well – your loss. All that propriety; it’s no way to live, I tell you.” Suddenly, he’s grinning again. “But look at me, chatting away like an old maid, when you have so much _righteousness_ to bestow upon all the lowly!” He laughs, and you humor him with a small smile of your own even though you hardly understand his jovial mood. 

But, just as suddenly, he’s shooing you away like you’ve started to annoy him. No surprise there, really, since your trembling voice and averted gazes seem to annoy most people you come across. “Off you go, then, little cleric. Best of luck with your pilgrimages, or missions, or…” he shrugs again, “ _Whatever_ it is you people do.” 

Leaning one hand against a decorated pillar beside him, he watches you like a hawk as you give him a little, sheepish bow farewell and back away toward the ladder you came up on. 

“Do watch your step, eh, ________?” he calls after you, and his laughter is the last thing you hear as he sinks away from view.

You decide that if there are truly people in need of your help at the bottom of these Catacombs, then you should try to seek them out before heading back to Firelink, despite how uneasy you are the further down you go. It takes much of your resolve to convince yourself that helping anyone down there is your duty. And it’s not long after deciding this that you find a narrow, bridged pathway leading across the heights of the catacombs and over to a fogged wall, of which you’re certain you must pass through if you’re to reach anyone at the bottom. 

As you cross the narrow bridge, the pathway begins to turn, to spin out from underneath your very feet, and in a panic you press off in a sprint and throw yourself onto the other side of the pit, just before you might have slipped off the rotating platform and to your certain death.

Rolling over from your desperate tangle on the cave floor, you lean up on your hands enough to peer with wide, frightened eyes down the treacherous abyss you were nearly tossed off into. 

And then you look skyward, up toward the sounds of entertained laughter, up toward the ledge you met the man in black on, and you see him smiling broadly across the pitted cave at you. 

“Whatever are you doing on the floor like that? You alright?” he jeers at you, his puckish voice echoing across the cavernous walls. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in prostration to the gods right _now -_ it seems hardly the time or place for it!” He laughs again. “These walkways are a bit peculiar, aren’t they? Wait…” he pauses as if to think. “Wait, something didn’t _happen_ to you just now, did it?” he smiles when you don’t manage to muster up a response. “Well I did warn you!” 

And then like a friendly viper, he slips away from view.

You try not to frown, but you somehow feel like his concern for you is a bit… well… perhaps just a bit insincere. He was _laughing_ at you, after all. Though it _is_ true that he warned you of the treacheries of this place. 

Pushing yourself up, you decide you must have misread the situation with this new acquaintance, Patches, though if you see him again you may just ask him if he could perhaps better warn you of any potential traps you may venture toward, assuming he knows about them.

And when the future comes to find you, you do again meet the man in black.

You don’t cross paths with him for quite some time. In fact it’s been so long since you’ve seen _anyone_ that you’ve rather lost track of the actual days you’ve been wandering alone. You continue to search for Solaire and his glowing sigil in every lonely place you come across, unable to stop yourself from doing so even if you wanted to, but are always left disappointed when nothing but the quiet of shadows finds you instead. Still, you think of your warm knight often, and try to remember his comforting laughter whenever you’re feeling particularly hopeless. When you can manage its reverie, you remember also what his light was like, and it keeps you moving forward in the hopes of finding it again.

You’ve been stumbling blindly through the thick web of darkness of the Tomb of Giants for a while now, and the shroud of this place seems to actually suffocate you in its miasma of silence. You’re fairly certain you’re lost, as you keep stumbling past a few skeletal remains that look all too familiar. You’ve also stubbed your toes more times than you can count, and a few times it was on the enormous bones of less than friendly skeletal giants who then sought to crush your skull in. You’d barely managed to escape a few of them.

Needless to say, when your straining eyes manage to catch on to a glimmering orb of light twinkling in the murky distance, you hurry toward the thing quite curiously, and a relieved smile spills across your face when you see Patches standing there as if he was waiting for you.

“Ah, ________!” he greets you like a long lost comrade. 

You nearly throw yourself at him in your relief to come across anyone you know in a place like this, but instead you reach forward and take his hand in yours. “Patches,” you beam, too caught up to care about the odd look he’s giving you. You’re so happy to see him that your normal anxieties free you from their sway entirely, and you kiss his hand, squeezing it tightly, probably more tightly than you should. “I’m so relieved to see your friendly face down here!”

He clears something caught in his throat, eyes narrowing the longer he looks at you. “So, uh… you’re not mad about that whole lever business then, are you?”

“What lever business?”

Slowly, his smirk takes a bladed edge. “Oh, nothing! Nothing at all. Sometimes I just dodder on about nonsense and the like!” He pulls his hand away from you, then drapes his broad, friendly arm about your shoulders, spinning you with him to peer off into the darkened distance. “Fancy seeing you in a place like this! You look a bit lost, perhaps I can help you with that.” He turns to grin at your slightly flushed face. You’re not used to being held so closely against anyone, especially not a man, and _especially_ not a man like him. “After all,” he smiles down at you. “We’re just a bunch’a jolly, undead outcasts, aren’t we? We gatta stick together if we’re to make it out of tight places and risky pickles like this one.”

You swallow thickly. “R-right,” you agree.

He looks between your eyes for a moment, his grin twitching just slightly, before suddenly he drops his arm and steps away from you. “Oh! But I nearly forgot, seeing you all the way down here like this is quite the distraction. But there’s a bit of trouble you could help me out with, if your humble holiness can spare it?”

“Truly?” you ask, folding your arms across yourself, only to quickly _un_ cross them in case Patches considers it rude somehow, like you’re uncomfortable around him or something. Which… you kind of are, though you don’t really know why. He’s perfectly kind, and he’s watching you even now with an affable smile on his face.

“Indeed!” his smile creases his eyes, and he nods his perfectly bald head in the direction of the glimmering prism stone a bit off in the distance. It’s brilliance is nearly blinding in this darkness, but when you squint at it long enough you can see the steep edges dropping off from the ridge on which it sits. 

“There’s a stash of treasure right down that hole,” he tells you, following your gaze toward the light. He comes up beside you again, resting a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Now, I found it first,” he points out, as if you were about to push him out of the way in your efforts to get to it before he could. “ _But…_ well, you’re the cleric, right? So it's all yours, love.” He claps your shoulder once more. “I owe you for all that, er, praying, and what not… Well go on!” He urges, with a slight nudge forward. You stumble forward a step under the weight of his helpful push, and he stifles back a laugh. “Have a look, will you! Your gods are sure to love whatever you find down there. Just be careful it doesn’t shimmer you blind!”

You turn around to look at him, your hands nervously wringing the long, cream-colored sleeves of your robes. “Forgive me, sir - _Patches_ \- but… I’ve no interest in treasure, like I already told you before, though maybe you forgot - sorry, again, if you haven’t forgotten - I just mean, um...” you trail off a bit helplessly. So much for managing past your anxieties - it was nice while it lasted.

You truly didn’t mean to offend the man, but he seems to take offence regardless. “ _Again_ with this noble _nonsense_ ?” he nearly hisses at you, rolling his eyes. “Give it a _rest_ already!”

Your fingers clamp around your sleeves, and you tug on them to help alleviate your growing fit of nerves. “I’m… sorry, I... I am still happy to help you with that bit of trouble you mentioned, of course.”

He pauses. “Oh, right,” he slowly says. “Trouble. Yes, yes, there’s definitely some trouble you can help me with...” His thoughtful gaze wanders away from you in thought, before suddenly snapping back to you once more in abrupt revelation. “Oh, yes! I remember now. I saw some of your cleric friends down here. That girl one - the _other_ girl one, besides you of course, and a few of her thick-skulled, pious buddies. Yup, they went after that treasure I told you about. Wanted to gobble it all up for those greedy-guts gods of yours. And I’ll need your help if we’re to save them!”

“Th-they’re here? All the way down here?” you stammer, your eyes widening. “Truly? And they need our help?”

“Oh most definitely,” Patches deftly assures, nodding his bald head in confirmation. “I’m quite certain of it! I heard some _ghastly_ screaming from down in that hole a while back, but I uh… got distracted from going down there myself right away, what with you arriving here and whatnot. Honestly, I could have probably saved them by now if you hadn’t showed up, so it’s mostly your fault they’re still down there.”

You shake yourself. “S-screaming?!” you nearly squeak, wandering at once toward the darkened cliff’s edge to look for your companions. If you weren’t so suddenly wrapped up in nerves, you might have even been surprised by how brave doing so without a second thought actually was for someone like you.

“Oh yes, horrible screaming, so much screaming - endless amounts of it, really,” he tells you matter-of-factly, walking along behind you. “And I really would have gone to help them myself, like I _said_ , but, well...” He stops just behind you as you peer with worried eyes into the abyss, and one of his hands slips about your waist. Jolting at his touch, you jerk around to stare over your shoulder at him like a startled owl. His smirking face is rather close to yours, too close you think, and his fingers run a few thoughtful lines over your side as he holds you there. After what feels like much too long, he leans down to purr in your ear. “To be perfectly honest, love, it would have been difficult to help them while also kicking them off this damned ledge.”

He pulls away, and his hands press into your back as he shoves you with sudden, purposed violence from the dimly lit crag. It happens so suddenly you don’t even realize what it is he’s done until it’s too late. You can’t react in time to try and grab hold of anything, and you just barely manage to catch yourself from landing face first in the pit of darkness as your body plummets into the hard earth below.

It’s a further fall than you even realize, and although you manage to save your nose from cracking into your skull, you still crumble in such a heap that your head bounces off the ground upon impact. Pain rings sharp through your mangled body, choking the breath right out of you as stars cross vision, strangling your every thought, and for a moment all you can see and hear is a pealing, muted brightness that wraps itself around you and suffocates everything else.

Pain finds you first after that, slowly but surely, as the jarring toll of deafness in your mind ebbs away, and the starkness fades to the blackness of the pit you now find yourself in. The ringing in your ears is replaced by the high-above laughter of Patches, that gleeful laughter he so easily tosses about, though you can’t manage to turn your body to look at him, your eyes fluttering helplessly as you struggle to convince your battered lungs to breathe again.

“Oh, you don’t look so good, deary!” The man in black’s echoing voice calls down to you. It bounces off of every stone surface, bombarding you with its amusement again and again as it fades. He seems… delighted, to witness you broken like this, by his doing, for surely he didn’t send you flying off that ledge by accident. 

His laughter sounds so far away, and it rains daggers upon you. Every huff of it fills you with more and more anger, so much so that your fingers curl with it against the earth. You can’t lift your head from the dirt, but your fingers pull into fists of rage. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this angry in your entire life - it’s hardly a proper emotion for a cleric, and you normally wouldn’t allow its spread in your heart. But you can’t seem to stem its growth within you now.

 _Perhaps it_ was _an accident_ , some part of you tries to reason with yourself, but the coils of rage pulling tight at your stomach know better. 

It pours over you, this… hatred. You lose control of its heat, and it slowly threads itself through your veins as you lay there, hailstormed by Patches’ continued laughter. So this is what it must feel like, then, to foster contempt for someone. And may the gods forgive you for it, but you truly feel nothing but bitter hate for this man and his laughter.

And he continues raining his laughter over you as you lay there, like a malice-filled hyena. “You damn clerics!” he casts down on you. “You’re worse than maggots!”

Your curling fingers twitch against the dirt, trying to obey your commands to push you upward, to lift yourself and stand, to face this traitor you thought a friend, to get away from him, to speak, to do _anything_. Your body won’t do a single thing you ask of it, other than for your desperate fingertips to rake against the earth.

“ _Hello?!_ Are you even still breathing down there? That was quite the tumble, I suppose! Ah, well, you just stay right there, sweetheart.” His voice begins to fade, as do his footsteps. “I’ll be down in a minute - don’t run off, now!”

Your vision slips, then swirls back again, and you’re too weak to be startled by the man’s black, leather boots as they stop right before your face. The weight of them sends a plume of dust into your mouth and eyes, and you barely manage to cough once. 

Your weak sputtering earns his surprise, and he leans down for a closer look at you. “Blimey, how did you... “ he rips the white hood off your head so he can grab up a fistful of your hair, yanking your neck back. His face swirls in your vision as you’re forced to look up at him. “Huh... I thought for sure you snapped your neck or something. You’re tougher than you look, aren’t you? You’re still breathing and everything. You weren't exactly supposed to survive that…” he considers you a moment, as you struggle to speak. 

“Y-you…”

His smile grows wide, watching you battle to remain conscious, and he leans down for a better listen. “What was that, love? You got something to tell me? Something important? Well go on then, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You sputter, wincing as you barely get out, “I…”

He cackles like an imp as he holds you there, his fingers curling painfully against your scalp. “You really gatta speak up! Enunciate! Wait, hold on a minute... you’re not trying to _pray_ or something _,_ are you?”

You can barely see him now, and as his face fades so does everything else. “I… I hate you,” you waver, not sure if you’re actually saying it or simply thinking it. “I’ve never… I _hate_...”

You don’t hear anything else after that, and somewhere in the clouded silence that swallows you up, something takes a hold of your ankle. Perhaps someone is speaking - you can’t be sure. Your face drags a heavy trail against the earth, like you’re being hauled off somewhere. And then you feel nothing, and everything is black.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Oscar of Astora
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	6. The Cleric Arc - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've just been knocked unconscious and dragged off by Patches. That's probably not a good thing.

**♡Your story continues, in the unfortunate company of…. Trusty Patches♡**

* * *

* * *

You awaken with a painful start, gasping as if from a terrible dream. Though surely you’re still sleeping, trapped within a nightmare even, for you’ve not awoken in the safe warmth of a makeshift bed, nestled somewhere beside the flickering of some nearby bonfire. No, you’re somewhere else entirely, and it must be a dream.

Though… normally dreams don’t hurt quite this much.

_Where am I?_

Your mind is swimming, struggling to keep up with itself. 

You’re standing, you realize - you were sleeping while standing, or you’re at least upright. How is such a thing even possible...? 

And your wrists… they start out numb, but pain like fire soon licks away at them, like hell itself is wrapping round your skin, and realizing this only seems to awaken the floodgates to even more aches and pain wracking your entire body. 

You try to wriggle your fingers, but you can't. The more you try, the more the digits prickle like shards of ice stabbing repeatedly into your flesh, igniting your nerves in sharp trails that run down your arms.

Wearily, you lift your head to look up at the hands you’ve lost all control over. They’re tied and bound to each other, the ropes holding them latched onto a rusted bolt protruding from the stone ceiling. And from it you’ve been left dangling, though your feet can still touch the ground beneath you. Presently, though, they hang rather uselessly against the floor.

With an aching groan, you shift your feet until you’re _actually_ standing, and your wrists are immediately grateful for it. Though now that blood can return to your useless hands, so can more sensation, and they prickle and sting with even more bites from frost-like fangs.

_Where am I?_ Your mind repeats itself, a bit more panicked this time.

Standing in the very center of a room, while bound to the ceiling above you, is the immediate answer. The walls surrounding you on all sides are stone-masoned and a bit mossy, a few of them crumbling, their worn pieces scattered across the ground. There’s a heavy looking satchel nestled against one corner of the room, and a dark, open doorway across from that. It must be night or something. And the air smells… moist, almost. Damp, and cold.

You don’t think you’re in the Tomb of Giants anymore, and you’re not sure just how frightened you are to realize that. You weren’t overly fond of the place, but your present situation seems far more dire. Your mind fights to recall if you’ve ever seen this type of structure before, this type of stone work currently swallowing you up in the hold of this small room, because the shape of the walls and the smell of the air are the only clues you really have to work with.

Perhaps… perhaps you _have_ seen stone like this, possibly at the Undead Parish?

The thought immediately has you thinking of your fond acquaintance Solaire, and your desperation has you calling out for him before you can even think to stop yourself or debate the likelihood of him actually hearing you. 

“Solaire–” you croak, your throat hoarse. You cough a few times, trying to wet your mouth before calling out again, “ _Solaire?_ ” Your hands wring against their confines despite the sparks of pain it brings you, and you keep calling for him even as your voice falls to a rasping whisper only you could possibly hope to hear. “ _Solaire…? Please… I - I need you..._ ” 

Your head drops, and your knees nearly give out from hopelessness alone. The more moist air you breathe, the more you realize you’re probably nowhere near the Undead Parish. And yet you still call his name. You can’t seem to help yourself. 

“ _Solaire…_ ”

“Do you really think that sunbathing idiot is on his way to save you right now?”

Startled from your hushed pleas, you look up, gaze struggling to focus toward the voice spoken to you, toward the room’s only doorway. Patches is standing there, a bucket held to one side as he smirks at you. 

Your red-ringed wrists jerk with anger against their restraints upon seeing him grinning at you like that. Wincing, you stammer out, “Patches! Wh-where are we? Why have you brought me here?! Why am I tied up like this?!"

With a carefully crafted smile, Patches wanders toward you without a word, bringing his sloshing bucket along with him so he can dump the ice-cold water it contains over your head. You cry out at the bitter cold of it, sputtering and pulling on your wrists more fiercely as if you can somehow wiggle free from the ropes that bind you to flee the icy onslaught. 

“Sorry about that,” he puts forth casually, not sounding at all like he means it. He props the empty bucket at his waist again. “But you smelled like a bloody sewer rat! Must be all that noble pilgrimage business you’ve been up to. And we can’t have a pretty nun like you smelling like _that_ , now can we? No, you’re a top shelf item today, deary; we must have you looking and smelling your very best.”

Your sopping wet robes cling to you, wrapping you in a damp cold. Shivering, you force yourself to meet his eye. “You… you _pushed_ me,” you breathe, your eyes narrowing first in disbelief, and then further in growing hatred. It feels like it’s eating you up inside. “You pushed me off that cliff. You meant to… to rob me! To _kill_ me!”

“Well look at you, finally catching up to speed,” he muses with a little smile. You flinch as he reaches over to rap his knuckles a few times against your head, his thoughtful gaze cast sideways as he appears to listen. “Hmm… it doesn’t _sound_ hollow in there. Still, you’re not so bright, are you? Good thing I’m not trying to sell that dull wit of yours.”

He keeps talking about you like you’re not even a person, and as the implications of what that could possibly mean slowly sink in, a trickle of apprehension settles into your very bones. 

You test the hold of your bonds dangling above your head again, feeling an increasing need to escape, but the ropes hold fast. “Please,” you murmur, dread washing over your drenched, shivering body. You barely manage to meet his gaze again, but you force yourself to all the same. “Why have you brought me here?” You wriggle again, and surely your wrists must be close to bleeding by now, but in your desperation you hardly care. “Please! Let me go!”

“I can’t just _let you_ _go,_ silly girl,” Patches says with a grin, tossing the empty bucket carelessly aside. It clatters noisily away as he continues, “What kind of business do you think I’m running here? Not all of us are saints like you. Really, these _theatrics_ of yours,” he chuckles a bit, watching apprehension waver across your face. “Calm down, will you? I have good news! You’ll be happy to hear that I’m done with all that dastardly looting business - in fact, you should be _proud_ of me! Truly! I’m an up and coming merchant now, turned over a brand new leaf.” 

You hardly understand what he’s getting at, and you shake your head as such. “I.. I don’t care about your… your merchant business, or what…” You twist painfully against your restraints. “Just let me go! _Please_!”

“Now now, kitten,” he chastises, booping the tip of your nose with one long, gloved finger. You blink in surprise at it. “Don’t be rude, it’s not very cleric-ey of you. And besides, you should probably be a _weensy_ bit more invested in my newest line of work, considering you’re the first thing I’m selling.” His smile grows as your eyes go wide. “Yes, I thought you might like that part. You’re the very special grand-opening item for one lucky, happy customer!”

“… _What_? What are you...” you break off, your already frayed nerves stripping down even further. Surely he can’t be serious... And yet, you’re tied and bound to a ceiling latch, near-dangling there in soaking wet skirts.

It’s probably safe to assume he's quite serious.

“Are you _still_ struggling to keep up, love?” he teases, lips stretching wide in that familiar, roguish smile of his. “Because I don’t know how much clearer I can be. I’m using small words with few syllables and _everything,_ just to keep you on board as it is _._ ” He rumbles with a bit of laughter, before holding an open palmed gesture in your direction. “Now, I won’t ask for your thanks straight away, what for giving you the opportunity to be a part of my new business venture, though I certainly do deserve it. And if you’d _like_ to show me your gratitude like a good little nun, you can do so while I’m testing the goods, for uh… quality purposes, you could say.” He smiles and shrugs. “ _Whatever_ you wanna call it is fine by me, but I’m not handing you off without a sample for myself all the same.” 

“You… you wish to… to sample me?!” you stammer, eyes owlish - in fact, if they went any wider they may just pop right out of your head. “I don’t…” you shake yourself. “I don't want a single thing to do with your business! Just… _please!_ I - let me go! Let me go at once! Patches, please!”

“I like the begging just fine,” he muses thoughtfully, otherwise ignoring you as he reaches down to withdraw the dagger strapped to his thigh. “But I’ll have you _praying_ to me before I’m through with you, sweetheart.” 

He brings the blade to your throat, and you bite your lip to keep from whimpering in fear. He regards you with eyes edged in amusement. “You’ll beg,” he assures, gently sliding the coolness of the blade across your skin, for no other reason than to watch you tremble. “And you’ll pray, like a good little cleric must _,_ ” he adds with a growing smirk. “And you’ll worship me as your new, shining God, pleading for me to absolve you of all your wanton sins with my righteous, godly cock.” The sound of tearing fabric rips through the small, stone room as he drags the dagger’s tip down the front of your robes, tearing them all the way in two as you gasp. 

He bites back some entertained laughter when he’s finished, watching as you try to pull away from him, tugging on your aching wrists for dear life. “S-stop this at once!” you shout, your face flushing at the fact your nakedness is now on display to him. You’ve never been this naked in front of a man before, and you try to twist sideways and away from the man opening staring at your nakedness now, trying to hide behind the tattered remains of the robes still hanging from your arms. “Let me go! _Please!_ ”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, calm down,” he broods, his eyes traveling over the shape of you. One brow takes a suggestive, upward curve as he does. “I heard you the first hundred times, and I’m _not_ letting you go. And besides,” he continues, his openly feasting gaze never leaving you for an instant. “You brought this on yourself, you know.”

Your jaw nearly drops at such an absurd accusation. “Wh - How?! H-how could I have possibly–!”

“Well you didn’t die when I pushed you off that ledge, for one thing,” Patches points out naturally, like you’re a fool for even needing this specified. He pressed the back on one thumb to his lips, finally meeting your gaze again. “ _And,_ you riled me up, egged me on and all that, what with those sweet parting words of yours.” He steps toward you, slipping his hands between the tatters of your hanging dress to pull your waist against his, his dagger still in one hand and pressed flat against your side. You squirm to get away, but it does little good. “You really struck a _nerve_ with me back there,” he tells you, his eyes catching on to yours even as you struggle against him and avert your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“G-get your hands off of me!” you tremble. He laughs, but removes his hands all the same, only so he can pull your panties down your thrashing legs with a growing smirk. He tosses them aside, righting himself before you again, his eyes devouring the sight of you as your keep trying to twist away.

“I simply can’t sell you to that duplicitous fellow without having a go at you, first,” he says, working with his dagger to cut away the sleeves hanging from your upraised arms, to bare your body completely to him. 

Desperation won’t allow you not to keep struggling to get away from him, no matter how fruitless each attempt is, and the blade of his knife ends up nicking your forearm as a result. In your growing alarm you don’t even notice, but he does, and he stops working to take a rough hold of your face with his free hand in order to glare at you.

“Stop being so wiggly! How am I supposed to sell you if you’re bleeding all over the place?” he tosses your face aside after chastising you so he can continue cutting off your other sleeve. “You and your incessant wiggling; I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You should be taking this whole thing as a compliment, really! I don’t normally keep prisoners, they’re far too… well, _wiggly_! And as a new business owner, it’s hardly proper for me to sample my own goods.” He tosses the shredded remains of your clothing away, leaving you trembling and naked before his hungry eyes. “But, here we are.” 

He sheaths his dagger, and then one gloved hand slides behind your neck, closing around it as he stares down at you. You try not to look at him, but his grip tightens until you do, and he smiles upon receiving your involuntary obedience. “Do you remember what you said? Right before I nearly left you for dead in that pit?”

You don’t want to answer him. Biting at your lip so harshly it nearly bleeds, you shake your head to tell him that you don’t, but in truth you simply don’t want to think about it, or to think about anything. You want to slip away through the earth and never be seen by anyone, and especially not this man in black, ever again.

He flicks your forehead with his free hand, making you flinch and cry out with fright more than the actual sensation of it. “First the wiggling, and now the lip biting? What are you? An _actual_ nibbly wiggly church mouse? What did I say about damaging the goods?” He flicks you yet again, and you whimper a bit pathetically a second time even though you saw it coming. “Stop nibbling those lips of yours or I’ll shove your tattered clothes into that pretty mouth. And I _really_ don’t want to do that.” His grip on your neck squeezes until you look up at him again. Frustrated, frightened tears well up in your eyes as he smiles down at you. “Do you _want_ me to gag you?”

You don’t say a word, but his tightened grip is a persuasive thing.

“N-no!” you stammer.

His oh-so-pleasant smile takes a wicked, broadening edge. “Good girl. How would I hear you pleading and worshiping your new God if I was forced to gag you? Hm?”

You open your mouth to plead with him then and there to let you go, but he covers your mouth with one impatient hand, leaving you muffling against his glove instead. “Now, where were we…” he pauses as if to think, before smiling once again. “Oh, yes! I asked you if you remembered telling me something, back when I sent you flying like a little bird from your little nest. So, do you?”

You do. You didn’t hit your head quite hard enough to forget. You told him you hate him, and even now that hatred boils inside you like some overheated kettle. But you shake your head no, denying yourself this hate you shouldn’t feel, even for someone like him.

He frowns at that, searching your eyes for something, like he knows you’re lying. “You said you _hate_ me, and it really doesn’t matter whether or not you _remember_ saying it. You said it all the same. Little pious _you_ , hates honest, trusty _me_.” Slowly, his smile finds him again, and his eyes tremor with darkened amusement. “You nearly had me fooled with that whole devoutly-perfect act, but you showed your true colors then, at the bottom of that pit. Slipped right off your self-righteous pedestal and _hated,_ just like the rest of us _lowly_ folk.” 

His hand slides down the back of your neck, slipping along your shoulder and down to cup your breast, and you twist away from his touch as he grins. He releases you, both his hands falling to his sides once more as he watches your grips of confusion and fright. His smile remains as he does, curved as a fiendish bow string, below his predatory eyes that seem to reach out for you even when his hands don’t. “It was a joyous thing to witness. I think I like knocking you clerics down a peg or two. And I’m _definitely_ going to knock you down more than a few pegs before your new master arrives. You’ll be far from grace by the time I’m finished with you.”

He turns and walks away from you then, leaving you staring after him in a fretful, baffled silence. Part of you hopes he’ll simply keep walking, that he’ll leave the room entirely and never come back, even though that would abandon you naked and stranded behind him. But he isn’t heading for the door - he crouches down before the satchel laying against one corner of the room, rifling through its many odds and ends for a few items of his choosing, all while humming pleasantly to himself under his breath.

When he finally turns around again to face you, he has a stoppered flask of some kind in one hand, and a few other oddities in the other. You can’t place exactly why, but you _really_ don’t like the glimmer of light in his eyes as he smiles across the room at you, and you twist your hands against their bindings on instinct as unease rolls over you.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, I’ll give you that,” he muses, standing once more. “Took a while to even admit to feeling something like hate, and that’s an _easy_ one - a _fun_ one, too. Really, how have you gone this far in life avoiding _hating_ anything without your head exploding? Must be all that praying you do,” he grins, tapping the side of his head for effect. “Keeps the brains from exploding and all that. Guess it is good for _something,_ then!”

Laughing to himself, he squats down once more with his litany of items, facing your direction this time as he sets out a few of his chosen wares on the stone floor before him. The flask is there, filled with what looks like the tangerine glow of estus. A small vial is set beside that, its contents a milky white, and an unrolled parcel of dried, crimson herbs are placed out last. “My special customer will be here before too long, and I don’t very well want him to stumble upon me desecrating you - he probably wouldn’t like that - so I don’t have a whole lot of time to waste buttering you up before we get things started. Luckily, I come prepared to break you over my lap nice and quick.”

He holds up the small, white vial to his scrutiny, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. When he’s satisfied with whatever he finds there, he glances past it, at you, with a little wicked smile. “I got this little ditty from ol’ Domhnall. And _he_ got it from that mysterious land of Zena he crawled out of. It’s a refined mushroom of some odd sort.” His hand closes over the vial, and he gives you a few suggestive eyebrow wiggles over that devil's grin of his. “Powerful stuff. And an aphrodisiac, too.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Aph… aphrodisiac?” you repeat, not knowing what the word means. It surely can’t be good, though, if whatever it is has Patches’ eyebrows bouncing mischievously like that. 

He almost seems surprised for barely a moment to receive your confusion, though he laughs quite a bit afterward - in fact, he has to put the white vial down just so he can sit back on his haunches and revel in whatever entertained glee you’ve brought him. “Oh, oh, my, my, my… you sorry, dumb thing,” he giggles, holding his stomach as if you’ve truly tickled him. 

He fixes himself back up into a proper Patches’ squat again, and as he does so his humor slips away from him, and the look he’s left with as he stares up at you is that of a blood-starved beast, one just catching scent of a freshly slashed and dripping wound. “Such a naïve, little kitten you are,” he slowly grins. “Don’t worry, my naïve kitten - I'll take care of you. I’m here to teach you a thing or two about all these delicious sins you’ve been missing out on. Why, this is going to be _much more fun_ that I even _realized_.”

Despite the growing hunger in his eyes, he turns back to his ingredients once again, dutiful in his task as he sprinkles a few of the red herbs into the flask of estus, before popping off the top of the refined, mushroom oil. “Hmm…” he hums in thought, eyeballing the thing. “I’m not really sure how much to put in here, truth be told. Though ol’ goldy-horns four-eyes did say to use it _sparingly…_ ” He thinks on that for a moment, before dumping the entirety of the vial’s contents into the flask, which he then tops off and gives a good, hearty shake. 

Your eyes grow wide - you may not know what the substance is, but that… that was _all_ of it! “What…” you begin, horror curbing your words. “You… you used too much! Surely!”

“Oh come now,” he drawls, standing with his newly crafted concoction in hand and coming toward you. He gives it a few more shakes, chuckling at how alarmed you look. “Though… I guess I can appreciate a _bit_ of your concern - you’re very much a _test subject_ , after all, darling - in fact, I’ve never been so good with the whole mixing up concoctions thing. You might even _die_ , but, well…” his smirk broadens. “Try _not_ to die, okay? Talk about awkward." He stops right before you, standing much closer than you'd like. "Now stop looking at me like a scared little mouse and _open wide_ ; time’s trickling away, and there’s only one way to find out _just how effective_ this stuff is.” He grabs your jaw as you squeak in terror, trying to jerk away from his grip while he brings the flask toward your lips. 

It's slightly more difficult than he must have suspected it would be to hold your squirming body in place, open your mouth to him, and dump in the unsavory substance all at the same time. “C’mon, then - stop - _stop_ that - I said _open,_ damn you! Stop _wiggling!_ I said _stop wiggling!_ ”

Biting your lips closed as muffled, fretful whines claw up your throat, you tear away from his grip again and again, twisting and turning and whatever you have to not to drink the stuff.

Huffing like a petulant child, he releases your jaw to simply delve his fingers straight into your mouth instead, prying your teeth apart as he tries to force feed you the orange substance. “Stop acting like a little brat and drink it already!”

_Nnnm uhmm!,_ you scream at him through taut lips, biting down on his fingers until his hisses and pulls away from you.

Openly glaring now, he snaps up your jaw in one hand so tightly that you cry out, and he uses that opportunity to start smothering you with the liquid as it pours down your throat. You sputter, coughing some of it back up, and he nearly snaps your jaw in half with one gloved hand in reprimand. Your mouth falls decidedly more slack after that, your eyes watering in pain. “Swallow _all of it,_ or I’ll slit your sorry throat,” he warns, as you try to swallow and gag past the sensation of drowning. He makes you drink the entire flask, coaxing the liquid down your throat until there isn’t a single drop left, and silky trickles like honey pour down your chin. 

And then he steps back so he can get a good look at you, tossing the empty flask carelessly aside to shatter against the stone floor without a glance.

He places a thoughtful hand to his chin as he observes you with mild curiosity, as if you’re an unpredictable sorcerer's experiment, one that might suddenly sprout wings or burst into flames at any moment. You do neither of those things, at least not yet anyway, as you hang heavy on your wrists, whimpering quietly. You try not to let the building pressure of your frightened tears spill out of you. 

“So…?” he questions at length, studying you for some kind of reaction other than to hang there, limp and defeated. “Did it work or what? It kicking in yet?” He gradually frowns when you don’t respond, adding in a growl, “Or do I need to kindly whittle the blade of my knife between four-eyes’ four eyes until he coughs up a refund?”

You can’t answer. Suddenly, you’re sweating, a cold sweat that buds along your temples and trickles down your naked spine, running lines like ice down between your breasts. But just as you begin to shiver against the clammy cold of it, the chill melts and blossoms and becomes something… warm, like flowers of light unfurling on your skin. 

Like a swift and violent tidal wave, you can’t even _think_ to answer any of Patches’ questions, because every muscle in your body has wound itself so fiercely around your bones that your entire frame trembles like a leaf tossed in the wind, and your lungs forget to even breath. You’re no longer standing tied up in that room - you’ve been transported, placed atop some blissful knife's edge set upon the clouds, to waver atop it in a strengthening breeze, its every slight movement threatening to send you crashing down into some unknown, melting abyss. 

Something like heated gold stirs at your core, throbbing and dripping molten and hot down your thighs, sending warmth crawling over every inch of your body as it does. You shift your thighs against each other, seeking the sudden, delicious friction it gives you. Your wrists don’t even hurt anymore, in fact their pain has been transformed, and you hang heavy on them just to get more of the biting pleasure that rushes toward the growing heat between your legs. 

A few, bubbly sounds you’ve never even dreamed of making before giggle their way from your slackened lips, as you twist your wrists more against your bindings, looking up at them with awe-filled, dilated eyes. 

Patches watches your hanging there like a drunken fool, one brow slowly arching as he does. Stepping forward for a closer look, his lips purse a bit inquisitively as he studies your flushed features. He seems quite intrigued by the state of you, unfathomable as it is to you both. 

“Little cleric?” he carefully probes, but you don’t respond. 

Slowly, he smirks, and just as slowly he peels off one of his black, leather gloves. Dropping it thoughtlessly to one side, his eyes never leave you as he takes yet another step closer, until his body barely brushes against yours. He slides his bared fingers along the dripping wetness already slicking down your thighs, his fingers easily slipping between your lower lips, where he finds you already aching for him. The second he circles your clit your entire body tenses even more and sends you crashing off the knife’s edge you’ve been transported to. Your weak cries echo around the room, your insides seizing you blind, until you’re left bowed over and hanging limp from your wrists above you, trembling and shaking with the violent, blissful aftershocks.

Sliding his hand from your wetness, he licks the taste of you off his fingers before settling into a pleased, knife-edged smirk. “ _Well_ , then, I think it might be working,” he teases. “Though maybe I might’ve overdone it a _wee_ bit... But no matter,” he goes on, his voice deepened by lust now that he’s had a taste of what’s to come. “I’m sure it’ll wear off the more times I have you screaming for me. I may even have you screaming in pain by the end of it, though you seem a far cry from that at the moment.” 

He watches you with near-glowing eyes, and his smile might as well have fangs with how he watches you stifle back the last of your needy, flustered whimpers.

You manage to catch his gaze as you dangle helplessly from your bonds, struggling to think past the euphoric waves that keep threatening to pull you off and under their weight. Even now you can hardly even see straight, and your breath comes to you in shortened, straining gasps. “E-enough,” you beg, suppressing the needy sounds that threaten to follow. Whatever is happening to you, you can barely stand it, and you’re not entirely certain you’ll remain conscious if it continues. “ _Please…_ s-stop…”

He smiles down at you. “Oh, darling…” he purrs. “We’re just getting started.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Oscar of Astora
> 
> ¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	7. The Cleric Arc - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve been forced into drinking an absurd amount of aphrodisiac-estus, and Patches insists on ‘sampling’ his wares before his newest customer shows up.
> 
> Please keep your arms and legs inside the smut vehicle at all times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear people who want one-shots again:::: I’ve pretty much already written the next few pieces of this arc (got a little over-excited to bring in more characters), BUUTTT I will take an intermission after these next few to tackle some more requests :) 

**♡The wrath of Trusty Patches continues...♡**

* * *

Patches steps toward you, his hands slipping around your waist, pulling your body to barely bump against his own. His fingers tug greedily at your flesh as he stares down at you, and he continues watching you like that until you finally look up at him, your cheeks flushed with yet another wave of heat that has you desperate for him to pull you against him even closer.

He doesn’t, though. He waits, smiling as he does. “You know,” he muses at length, digging his fingers a bit more at your sides. You shiver with need, and his eyes light up in response to it. 

He pulls you just a bit closer. “Under all those fetching moans and mewls my fingertips inspire - you’re welcome, by the way - you still seem like maybe you want me to…” he gives a light shrug, “I dunno… _stop_ all this, or something.”

Weakly, you nod your head with as much enthusiasm as you can muster, and you open your mouth to demand he do just that, though its at the very same time he decides to pull your body flush against his waist. As such, the only words that actually leave your lips are a needy, “Oh _gods…_ ”

Smirking, his bared fingers trail electric lines along the ridges of your hips, tickling higher as they journey to tease your peaked nipples. “Tell you what, _______,” he says, circling the pad of one thumb around your nipple’s peak a few times, before giving its tautness a pinch. The sensation sends flashwaves of pleasure toward your core, and pulls a barely restrained whimper from you that you try to bite back on. “If you can convince me to stop, I’ll stop.” He gently kneads your breast, and gives your nipple a few more playful flicks. You think you’re trying to pull away, but you actually stand on tipped toes instead, trying to force more of yourself against him, and a wicked grin plays across his face to see it. “You’ll have to be _very_ convincing though. So, let’s hear it, then,” he inclines his ear to you a bit. 

“P-please…” you whimper. 

“Please what?” he asks, voice a bit husk. His hand brushes down your stomach, snaking between the wetness of your thighs so he can slowly slip two fingers gliding up into your heat. They press into you without effort, and your spine arches against him immediately. He holds you anchored to him with his other hand on the small of your back. “I’m listening,” he smiles, and the second you mean to respond he begins thrusting his fingers in and out of you. 

Your head swivels back and forth in protest. “ _P-Patches,_ ” you moan, unsure of what you’re even trying to say anymore. You’ve never felt such overwhelming pleasure in your life, and your inner walls are already sending ripples of tension through your core that pull tighter and tighter. And then you break. Your head rolls back on your shoulders as you cry out, your wrists twisting helplessly against your bonds 

The shivers of your orgasm on Patches’ driving fingers has him leaning down to mouth along your collarbone, a low growl of arousal in his throat that vibrates against you. 

He doesn’t relent, his fingers continuing to drive up and down into your slickness. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he groans against you, sucking at your flesh before biting down where your shoulder meets your neck.

Perhaps he even bit you quite hard, you can't be sure, but you long for it. The pleasure and pain has you convulsing around his curling fingers again, and you nearly pass out with the strain of it.

He pulls his dripping fingers out of you then, laughing as he does, though his eyes are hooded and dark with growing desire. “Do you need a little break?”

You try to nod, though you’re trying harder just to gulp down enough air to keep the blackness from spotting your vision. “P-please…” you whimper. “... _Stop…_ ”

“You nearly had me believing you that time,” he goads, ripping off his other glove. "Why don’t you try again. Put a little effort into it. Really convince me." He grabs the meat of your thigh and hitches one of your legs up and around his waist. “Now, tell me again, little cleric; do you really want me to stop?”

"Yes!" you sob, though your leg curls tight around him to keep him against you.

His predatory eyes close you in their starving glow. "Your body says otherwise," he breathes, reaching down to unlace the tassels of his pants, those hungry eyes never leaving you. "What a treacherous, lying thing it is. Perhaps, as your new God, I should teach it a lesson for betraying you." 

You crane up to his neck, desperate to taste him, feeling like you might cave in on yourself if you don’t right at that moment. You bite at him, lapping wet lines over his throat, and you feel his satisfied hum under your tongue as its wetness massages his pulse point, and needy whines muffle against his skin.

His hands pause their task in freeing his hardened length as your lips drag down his flesh. “ _Gods,_ woman,” he nearly shudders as you continue sucking bruises into him. “Remind me to commend Domhnall for his botany skills.”

You can’t be bothered to respond to that. “Please,” you moan against him instead, tugging at him with your hitched leg in an effort to gain some kind of friction that will fuel the fires burning between your legs. 

He laughs a bit at the sound you make when your clit finds what it seeks, rubbing along the swollen ridge of his trapped erection, and he allows you to press yourself against it as he stoops down to whisper in your ear. “You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” One hand splays across your lower back, aiding in your efforts to grind his cock. He sucks in a muted breath as you do, before continuing, “I’ll give you one last chance to convince me in freeing you. That’s right,” he grabs up a fistful of your hair with his other hand, forcing your mouth away from his neck so his eyes can capture yours. “I’ll let you _go,_ little cleric. Free as a free little bird. But first, I want you to think about how good it felt to have these godly fingers of mine inside of you.” 

His fingers tighten at your scalp, his other hand urging your clit onward in its search for release upon his growing erection. Your knees nearly buckle as you imagine what his words inspire, your breaths thin and shattered as that delicious pressure builds. His leather pants are slick with your wetness, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

He continues, his words slightly more strained as he watches your desperation to use him in unraveling yourself. “It will feel ten times better to have my cock in you,” he assures, and he leans down to suck on your earlobe as you whimper, curling his wicked words into your ear. “To have me pushing my way between your folds, forcing every needful ache into moans of pleasure from your lips, again and again until I’ve ravaged you to my heart’s content.” 

His words have you moaning already, and it sounds like perhaps he wanted to laugh at that, but it catches in his throat as more of a low, heated growl. “Tell me to let you go,” he whispers hot against you. “Or tell me to fuck you like the godless whore you are. Tell me to fuck you, darling, and I will. I’ll fuck you until you can take no more.”

Never before have you uttered anything quite so foul, but your need is a beast that cannot be ignored, contained or reasoned with. It roars through your veins, pulsing hard and heavy in your ears with its want. You need this man to fill you in a way you’ve never been filled before. You _need_ it. You want it. Now. You’ll die without it.

Fingers trembling as you grab onto the bindings that wrap your wrists above your head, you sob out, “ _Fuck me_ ! Please, fuck me - I can’t… _Now,_ I’ll… I’ll do anything, just... _please fuck me_!”

He chuckles, pleased by how desperate you sound. “If you insist,” he breathes, letting go of your hair. 

He frees his stiff length from his leggings before driving himself into your welcoming warmth, fully sheathing himself with one agonizingly long stroke. Your thighs tremble with the effort to receive the full intrusion of him, and as moans wrack your body Patches lifts you off the ground by both your thighs. Your legs wrap themselves obediently around him, not allowing him any distance from you, though he still manages to press a few, deep thrusts into your core from where you’ve pinned him against yourself.

Your head drops against his chest as you struggle to breath past every keening gasp he drives for you. His pressure inside you has you undone in mere moments, and you cease breathing entirely as his continued strokes springload every muscle of your core, tightening them into heated coils that cling around his cock. You finally manage to breath again as you cry out against his chest, as he continues thrusting into you. 

A growl works up his throat, unfurling as a groan as he feels you clench around his length in waves. By the end of it he’s panting with the effort to hold back his own beckoning bliss.

“More,” he rasps against your neck, as you greedily obey. 

Your legs are quivering, and although they stay locked around his waist, they slacken enough in your growing exhaustion to allow him more space in which to pull and thrust into you. He takes advantage of the opportunity to lengthen his drives. His hardness drags across more of your trembling walls, igniting fire within you, merciless as his hands grab hold of your waist to pull your wetness over his cock again and again as he fucks you senseless.

You try to bite at his neck again, to hungrily lap up his growing damp of sweat like a begging dog, but you can’t - you’re already being driven over the edge again. Broken moans shake your lungs as you come again, and Patches meets your trembling breaths with a drawn out groan of his own. His length twitches, and he nearly comes undone right along with you.

The pleasure he rocks you with is so intense it almost hurts. It throbs through the furthest tips of your nerves, dragging every inch of you though euphoric flames as he sheathes himself within you more relentlessly.

His thrusts struggle to remain even, and his grip on your rocking waist grows painfully tight. He’s too close to meeting his end for any semblance of restraint. One hand slides up your waist, snaking into your hair to force you to look at him. Dark with furious need, his eyes hold you in their possession so he can watch as you break for him again. “I want more of your pleasure, love. Be a good pet and give it to me.”

Your legs wrap more around his waist at his command. “ _Unngh… Oh gods,_ ” you groan, your toes curling. 

His cock sinks into you with growing urgency, and as your abused walls tighten around him again, you feel his length grow even harder, and then pulse a delicious heat deep within you. Dragged out moans press against your shoulder as Patches keeps driving his throbbing cock into you, and your vision begins to blur with the strain it takes to meet him at the depths of some sinking, euphoric void yet again.

You come so hard you stop breathing entirely, little squeaks barely clawing past your lips as your eyes roll back. His teeth graze your shoulder as he continues hammering into you, his moans warming your skin. Everything is convulsing waves of pleasure that take from you everything you could possibly give, and then everything is black. 

* * *

You awaken with a start when Patches dumps a bucket of water over your head, a haggard moan rasping from your lips.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” he beams. He has a second bucket filled with frigid water, and you don’t manage to successfully protest before he’s splashing that one over you, as well. 

You cough weakly, sputtering and blinking water from your lashes, “P-Patches... what…”

“Sorry, love, but I made rather a mess of you,” he grins. “Did you have fun?” 

You’re too bleary to respond, though the bouts of ice cold water were definitely effective in forcing your mind up and running again. “Fun?” you mutter at last, your voice confused and barely above a whisper.

He smiles at you as he kicks his empty buckets aside, and they roll haphazardly away to clatter against the wall. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself," he points out. "I know I was, in any case. In fact," he goes on, coming toward you to tuck a few wet, dripping strands of your hair behind one ear. His eyes travel over yours as his smile broadens. "I might be having the weensiest of second thoughts in selling you. I kind of like having a pet cleric. Perhaps more than I like having a fat purse."

You don't even know what to say to that, but dread slowly begins replacing whatever had previously beat through your heart the longer you stare up into his wickedly smirking face. 

You can't fully accept that you're 'owned' by someone now. That to be owned is what you can expect from now on. You just can't. But Patches’ desire to keep you as his starts to really drive that point home, and has a newfound panic unfurling in your chest.

If you must be owned, if that is truly your fate, then to be owned by anyone else must be better than to be owned by him. Any other master must be better. You can't... you can't continue to remain under the pressure of Patches' playful thumb, cannot continue to be toyed with by him. You'd rather be owned by anyone else other than this rogue in black.

You try not to let your words waver as you manage to choke out, “But, you… you mean to sell me,” you feebly remind him.

He gives you a shrug. “Well, I’ll definitely try to wring out every last penny from my old friend in doing so - but, if he keeps those purse strings drawn up nice and tight, I’ll just keep you instead.” He smiles fondly at the thought, while your eyes grow with mounting dread. 

A sudden idea seems to strike him. “Oh! That reminds me. I can’t have a pet cleric without all her saintly bells and whistles.”

He heads over to his satchel of wears, fishing around a bit until finally letting out a triumphant, “Ah-hah! This’ll do the trick nicely!”

Turning back to you, he comes to stand before you again with an ivory garment in hand, which he then holds out as if to judge its potential fit on you, his new pet. “Hmmm,” he hums, giving it and you a thoughtful once over, and ending with a satisfied nod. “Yup, this’ll fit you nicely. Now all I need is a leash.”

You can barely hear him, though, because you’re too caught up on that garment he sizes you up with. All you can really hear is the sound of your heart slowing to a dismal crawl, because you recognize that particular maiden’s blouse. That specific crimson threading along the front, the one tangled up with a few trappings of gold. 

“That’s…” your hoarse voice breaks, your eyes unblinking as you stare at it. “That’s… Reah’s…” Your mind seizes up into a painful knot, as does your heart, and you bite down on the plush of your lip to keep the stinging threat of tears at bay. “How… how do you…”

“Oh, well, uh…” Patches lowers the garment to his side in one fist. His grinning teeth smile into view, even as he rubs the back of his neck with his free hand like he’s somehow embarrassed by something. “Well this is a bit awkward, isn’t it? I forgot the two of you were friends and all that.”

Grief overcomes you, but with it floods a growing wave of anger that threatens to consume you. Tears still cling to your eyes, but the heat of your glare as you look away from the garment, as you stare up at his grinning face instead, could very well bore holes though his head. In fact, you’re rather surprised when it doesn’t. “Where is she?” you demand, your voice lashing out at him. “What did you do to her?!”

He laughs at whatever hateful expression you must hold. “I know you’re not the sharpest, but you’re not really _that_ stupid, are you?”

Your lungs tighten to the point you can barely seem to breathe, let alone speak, though you choke out, “You… killed her?”

“Well…” he considers that a moment. “ _I_ didn’t kill her, you have my word on that, my darling, lovely pet.” He smirks. “Now... _gravity,_ on the other hand...”

Something in you snaps, and the echo of it rings through your mind, whipping out again and again until fading into nothingness. You’re left hanging there on your wrists, staring at him with a blank, overwhelmed sort of horror. 

And then something savage overtakes you, sinking inward to possess your very soul. You aren’t even thinking anymore. The only thing driving you is your newfound hatred, and its desire to sink hate-filled teeth into this horrid, reprehensible murderer before you. 

Your vengeful scream echoes off the walls as you cry out and thrash at him, managing to wildly kick him once as you tug on your wrists, though little good it does. He simply falls away to a safer distance at which to laugh at how undone by rage you suddenly are. It seems to amuse him quite a bit.

“You’re a monster!” you scream, still writhing and kicking in your attempts to pummel him, to make him pay for everything he’s done to you. His laughter washes over you until you’re blinded by your wrath, and all you can see is a pulsing, seething red, and in its crimson cast you see yourself, pounding his smiling face into a bloody pulp with your bare fists. And though you can’t make this vengeance a reality, your wrists bleed with the effort to twist out of their confines to reach him and try.

And he just keeps laughing at you, watching you writhe about with a gleeful smirk, one that grows as you begin sobbing with the effort it takes to keep trying to free yourself, to avenge your fallen friends. 

His arms fold across his sturdy chest as he settles in to watch the show of you struggling and screaming like a vengeful beast, his smile curling with satisfaction. His steeled eyes feast upon this creature of wrath he’s created, this uncontrolled, hateful creature torn from the ashes of what was once timid and virtuous. He seems quite tickled by the state you’re in, truly, even as he playfully reprimands, “Well _that’s_ not a very nice thing to call someone.”

“Follow the sounds of anguished shrieking, and you’ll surely find Trusty Patches, and those his trust has wronged,” a voice cuts in from the doorway. “What have I happened across... I believe I might be early, after all.”

Patches turns toward his first potential customer, your naked body screaming and writhing in a blind rage in the background behind him, flailing against your bonds without relent as Patches smiles like there’s not a single thing wrong in all the world. “No, _no_ , not at all, friend! You have it all wrong! Please, come right in!”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Artorias the Abysswalker  
> The Pursuer  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Solaire of Astora
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	8. The Cleric Arc - part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patches' special customer arrives to view his wares (that's you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can guess who your potential new master is before his name is spoken, you win! And what do you win? Well… *stuff*, of course! Here, you can have this *presents gold star*  
> HOWEVER, if you guess incorrectly, no gold stars for you! *takes the gold star back!*

**♡Your story continues, and a new master appears, featuring…. you’ll see soon enough♡**

* * *

?

* * *

  
  
The man walks inside at Patches’ invitation, a giant, curved blade slung casually over one gold-crested shoulder. The sword is easily as tall as he is, and the fact that it’s unsheathed might be the reason Patches suddenly squirms about in his boots a bit.

“Leave it to you to do business in a rank dungeon," he says as he enters. His voice is deep and clear, with a slight accent you can’t place, and the low inflection of it pulls you out of your vengeful stupor enough to at least hear his words, though you’re too captured by the need to escape and claw Patches’ eyes out to stop twisting against the confines latching your hands to the ceiling above you. 

“Ah, come now, friend - the rankness of any dungeon around here is all thanks to _your_ neck of the woods! I can’t be blamed for it!” Patches grins, before offering a good-natured shrug. “But I digress; come in, come in! Welcome to my humble shop!” 

He steps aside so his special customer can better assess the goods thrashing about behind him, seemingly oblivious to your angry whimpers and growls as you writhe against your bonds like an angry fox caught in a hunter’s snare. And while Patches may ignore your struggles, you’ve managed to pique the interest of the man in the doorway with your displays of desperation, as he seems to be staring at you. 

With both hands placed satisfactorily on his waist, Patches goes on, “You've the pleasure of being my first customer! I’m calling this traveling shop of mine ‘Trusty Patches’ Trove of Treasures’!”

The man shortly hums; an indication that he heard the name, but is in no way amused by it.

The sounds of his armor approach you - you can hear plates of steel clinking against themselves and the low stretch of leather over your angry panting - and you stop pulling all of your weight against your upraised wrists so you can finally look at him. At this potential new master of yours. Though perhaps to simply ‘look’ isn’t quite the right way to describe it, because you’re openly glaring at him. Normally you might chastise yourself for glaring at a perfect stranger, seeing as how it's rather rude, but you’re far beyond caring about any such formalities now. If this man means to buy you, then he can be no better than Patches - and you despise that… that utter _bastard._

And so you glare, standing still at last so you can watch the man as he comes to stand before you, eying him as a viper would an unwanted handler, coiled and ready to strike if you must. You keep tugging on your wrists, the motion second nature by this point, even as you feel new stings of warmth trailing down from where you’ve twisted rope burns into your flesh. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore but freeing yourself and satiating the new, angry beast growing inside you.

This newcomer is tall, and the closer he gets, the more your resolve shrinks beneath his shadow, but you force yourself to meet where you think his eyes might be, anyway; you can nearly see their glow somewhere past his slitted helm as he regards you, though his features are so shaded you can’t be certain.

You’ve never seen a man with armor quite like his before. A golden lion’s face adorns one broad shoulder, and a sash that dangles lengths of gold chain and tethered discs is cinched about his waist, showing off his impressive figure, accenting the litheness of his waist below the breadth of his sturdy shoulders. He has a collection of differing tassels and carefully crafted gold plates, leather pouches and sheathed daggers - his visage is quite a busy thing to look at, and you find yourself wondering what all those tiny satchels adorning him might hide. 

He stops to stand right in front of you, undeterred by the fact that you could easily kick him if you wanted to. Not that you would; you’d be kicking armor, without shoes of any sort to protect you - it wouldn’t be the wisest decision to make.

Though you’re rather tempted to kick him anyway when he reaches his free hand toward you. His gloved fingertips gently brush down your bare side, just barely grazing the side of one breast, and you jerk away from him, eyes burning like angry coals up at him as you do. You can’t seem to help the hateful, helpless tears that well up in your eyes as you continue to glare. Your nerves are completely throttled, and despite your rage, you _are_ still afraid to be at the mercy of Patches and whoever in any hell this new man is.

He scoffs when he sees your lip tremble before you can bite down to stop it, and his curious hand falls away, the other digging into the hilt of the giant sword slung over his shoulder. “You told me you had a special item.” 

“I do!” Patches confirms, and the gold-gilded man turns to look at him.

“Then where is it?”

Patches laughs, a hearty, friendly sort of chuckle, though to you it seems a bit forced. “It’s standing right in front of you! You haven’t gone blind protecting these woods of yours have you, Shiva my old friend?”

The man, Shiva, turns to look at you again. “ _This_ is what I’ve wasted my time for?”

“Well hey now,” Patches counters, sounding a bit offended. “That’s no way to go on about my wares, especially one I’ve gone so far out of my way to bring to you. And she’s a wiggly one, too - it wasn’t exactly _easy_ dragging her all the way out here!” He smiles pleasantly enough, taking a few steps toward where Shiva stands in front of you, though his steps hesitate when Shiva sends a derisive gaze over one broad shoulder at him again. “Eh, er… but for you, old friend, it was worth the trouble. She’s a collector’s item, for all that collecting you do! A _special_ one at that!”

“For a collection of what, pray tell? Weak, trembling maidens?” Shiva scoffs. “I ought to finally skin you alive, or at least rid you of your lying tongue. You know well what you led me to believe you possess.” His grip shifts on his sword hilt, and Patches falls back a worried step at the gritted sound it makes. “I should have known better, than to think someone like you could obtain it for me.”

“Now now, friend–” Patches mutters, a careful eye on Shiva’s giant sword. He holds both hands up in a show of obeisance. “I made no mention of any _blades_ or whatever the bloody hell it is you’re so obsessive over. I mean only to add to your collection of rarities - and oh, she _is_ a rare one!” 

Patches slides quickly alongside you, gesturing over your nakedness to show off the truly prized possession you apparently are, though he’s forced back a step as you snarl and try kicking at him. Still, he otherwise ignores the attempt to attack him, his seller’s attention honed in on the man with the giant sword. “For one thing, she’s a cleric! That’s a useful little thing, is it not? What with all that healing and praying and whatnot?” 

He waits a second after making this pitch, as if he expected Shiva to jump all over that selling point, but Shiva simply stares back at him without a word. 

Clearing something nervous from his throat, Patches continues, “Well go on, say _something!_ Does that little club of yours have a cleric?”

Shiva’s muscles grow even more taut, like he’s seconds away from just cutting his losses and cutting Patches down along with them. “Yes,” he gruffs shortly, growing more annoyed by the second.

His tone seems to have Patches in a bit of a panic, and he’s quick to add, “Well - well she’s not _just_ a cleric, nope, she’s also the ‘Chosen Undead’ or some humdrum! _Chosen_ I tell you! For… breaking curses or something. But chosen all the same! Special, one of a kind! As rare as they come! That’s the _main_ reason I’ve brought her all this way for you!”

Shiva glances back at you, and though you continue to glower, the intensity of his hidden gaze has you leaning slightly away from him involuntarily. For whatever reason, your being ‘chosen’ seems to interest him, and he reaches out for you again, grabbing hold of your jaw. He tilts your face toward his for a moment, watching as your lip trembles despite yourself yet again, before turning your face this way and that, as if you might have some hidden feature he must have missed when he sized you up the first time.

When his hand falls to brush against your waist again, you twist away from his touch as though it were white hot iron, sucking in a fearful breath. You blink back the angry tears still stinging your vision as you stare up at him, and he watches you for a while in studious silence. 

His hand falls again to his side. “How much do you want for her?” he asks, not looking away from you.

Patches grins like a spoiled cat from behind him. “See? I knew you’d like her! I almost reconsidered selling her to you entirely, truth be told - she’s a fun one!”

“How much?” Shiva repeats.

“She’s a rarity, like I said,” Patches responds, a bit smug now that he has Shiva’s full attention. “So she ain’t cheap, of course; but for you, my old friend, I’ll part with her loveliness for a special price of… er… half a mil.”

The man rumbles in brief, mocking laughter, his golden lion’s head trembling and clinking with the sound of it, as if the gleaming creature were laughing right along with its master. “Surely you jest.”

“It requires a pretty penny to come away with a pretty bird like this one,” Patches insists, standing firm on his listing price.

“You expect me to pay that much for a near-broken, shivering mess?” Shiva questions, voice skeptical. “Untrained to my will and too weak to hold a sword?” An annoyed breath escapes his helm, and he turns away from you as it does, heading toward the open doorway without a second thought. “I have no use for unruly pets.”

You blink after him in surprise at his swift departure, wondering if he’s simply baiting Patches into lowering his asking price. But his every step is purposed, and he gives every appearance of leaving Patches’ offer to buy you untouched and on the table.

“Yes, well,” Patches says, watching him go, surprisingly unperturbed to have missed out on a sale. “If you change your mind, you know how to find me! Best of luck on your travels, then, or uh... wolf knight fanboy meetings. Whatever it is you do with that club of yours.” His growing smirk settles in on you. “I’m sure the ‘chosen one’ and I can keep one another entertained until you come to your senses and loosen up those purse strings a bit.”

The thought of Patches entertaining himself a single second longer at your expense sinks desperation’s heavy claws into you, and you hear yourself calling out after Shiva before you’ve even fully realized you meant to. 

“W-wait! Take me with you!”

He doesn't respond to your plea, but his steps slow, and then stop entirely. He stands near the doorway in silence, not turning around.

You try again, forcing your voice not to shake. “Take me with you!”

“You’re hardly in any position to be making demands, frail creature,” he returns coolly.

Your hands twist of their own accord against the ropes binding them over your head, your mind racing for any way of convincing him not to leave you there. “I… I’ll be your pet! I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want!”

He turns to glance at you over his shoulder, but doesn’t say a word.

Again, you pull against your restraints, your eyes wide as you implore, “Please - I’ll do all that you ask of me, and… and all you must do to earn my undying favour is to allow me one small token first!”

Slow, scoffing laughter finds him, but he’s intrigued enough by your offer to at least turn around and face you. His long sword pivots upon its place slung over one shoulder, so that the blade of it fits at a downward angle along his back, safe from bumping into the stone walls around him. “She makes more demands now?” he says, like he can’t believe the audacity of it. He scoffs again. “Like I said - unruly. A willing and loyal pet would never demand a single _thing_ from me.”

“It’s a small boon, and it would benefit you too,” you implore, twisting at the ropes above your head. “Surely!”

He laughs a bit more at that, his humor low and reserved, but amused nonetheless. “Well you’re at least an entertaining pet, I’ll give you that.” He pauses for a moment in thought, considering you as he does. “Very well. What is this token your subjugation requires, then, that will so benefit the both of us?”

You glance at Patches standing there, your fingers curling in on themselves. Flames of hatred, inspired and signatured by the man in black, blaze with new life in your eyes before you turn back to Shiva, and you say without a single waver to your voice, “Let me kill him.”

Patches perks up with a new sort of interest upon hearing this requested favor of yours. “ _Kill_ me?” he derides, crossing his arms as his eyes roll. He ridicules the very notion with an aggravated scoff. “Oh _come now_ , cleric - you’re being ridiculous. You really need a time-out or a nap or something.” He gives you an incredulous once over, chuckling as your shoulders tense in annoyance. “Truly, you couldn’t lay more than a gentle finger on me. How would you and your tender heart live with yourselves doing anything more than that? _Kill_ me… _really…_ I ought to gag you to keep any other madness falling from your mouth...” he rolls his eyes again. 

You do your best to ignore him, your gaze given only to the man with the golden lion. “Let me kill him,” you say again, more insistent this time. “And I’m yours. Freely - for there’s no use in paying a dead man.”

Shiva doesn’t respond right away, which is apparently not the reaction Patches was hoping for. No, it throws him into a new realm of panic he’s not very good at hiding. “N-now wait a minute,” he sputters, eying you in growing disbelief, like he can’t believe his new pet cleric has such a sharp tongue, or would even _dream_ of actually hurting him.

He takes a step toward Shiva, rattling on, “She’s obviously unhinged! I should break her in a bit more before selling her to you, at any rate; she must have been bumped around a _wee bit too much_ on the journey here - hit her head a few too many times or something.” He nods a few times in assurance of this. “Yup, I’ll work out her kinks a bit more, then sell her to you for a discounted price for all this trouble I’ve caused you. We could knock off ten percent even!” 

Shiva hasn’t budged from where he stands in the doorway considering you, so Patches makes to shoo him away with a few hurried gestures. “So you run along now, Shiva! Off you go! I’ll come find you again when she’s nice and pliant for you!” But the man is more or less talking to himself, because no one else appears to be paying him any mind. 

Shiva’s shadowed eyes hang on you, just as yours hang on him, and for a while neither of you say a word, all while Patches mutters and sputters with growing desperation in the background.

Finally, Shiva laughs, the sound ripped right from his belly. He continues laughing as Patches' protests grow steadily more apprehensive, and then he nods to an empty corner of the room behind you, as if there was something standing there somehow, something to follow whatever unspoken order such a nod would seem to give. It doesn’t make much sense to you, nor to Patches, who follows the direction of Shiva’s nod with a little quizzed look.

Then, just as inexplicably, your bonds are at once cut down - the ropes slit themselves, and without their support to keep you upright you fall in weak surprise to your knees, unable to immediately hold up your own weight. With a slightly pained gasp, you grab at your wrists, massaging life back into them as you twist around in search of something that could have possibly freed you, but you find nothing in that room behind you.

Shiva widens his stance in the doorway, rumbling with yet more laughter as Patches’ eyes nearly pop out of his head in disbelief to see you cut down as if by magic. Though his confusion doesn’t hold him for long; being the nimble-witted scoundrel that he is, he’s rather quick to decipher that his new standing in this quickly changing landscape isn’t likely an ideal one for himself, and just as quickly he begins to skirt away toward the exit of the room, though it would seem in his panic he'd forgotten Shiva was already there waiting for him, filling the doorway with his impressive frame and equally impressive sword. 

His sneaking steps come to a decisive stop at the sight of it, and he blinks a few times at Shiva's gold, slated helm.

“Shiva…” the name takes a while to leave his tongue, as if he’s still searching for the best way to continue whatever persuasive sentence he’s attempted. He angles a bit closer to the door, perhaps trying to find the best spot in which to slip past the man blocking his path to freedom, though he hesitates to actually get too close to that giant sword, unsheathed and resting casually on Shiva's shoulder, ready to cut through him at a moment's notice. 

He balks a bit as his eyes travel it's shining length. “You’re not _actually_ buying into this madness, are you? She’s lost her marbles!" He attempts a good-natured chuckle past his nerves. "Now why don't you step aside, friendly-friend, because I, uh… well, I'm a bit claustrophobic in this place! Need a bit of fresh air, and I'll be right as rain!"

Sluggish and a bit shaky, you push yourself upright, your knees wobbling like a newborn fawn until you steady yourself enough to stand and watch Patches try to slither his way out of his current predicament, as well as wait to see what Shiva will do next.

“C-come on, now, Shiva - we’re friends!” Patches insists, holding his hands up, more and more perturbed by Shiva’s steadfast silence. “Right?! You’re not _really_ going to let this rotten - _Augh!”_

Shiva has Patches by the scruff of his neck before another word can be spoken, and he throws the sputtering man into a crumpled pile at your feet. Patches lands in a rather heavy and ungraceful mess, though he twists around at once to stare up at Shiva in complete disbelief. 

You can practically see his mind spinning as he quickly turns to you, instead, changing tactics on a dime in deciding you’re likely the easier one to persuade in allowing his escape.

He scrambles to his hands and knees, shuffling in a show of contrition toward where you stand glaring down at him. “______, friend… C’mon, now, ______!” he says with a repentant smile. “Look, I, er… I did you wrong, but, I didn’t mean it! These… _temptations_ , they can, well, overcome me… You know what I mean? Don’t you? So it wasn't my fault, really! So if you'll just call your dog off, I’ll get right out of your hair, straight away - just tell your new pal Shiva there to get out of the doorway already...”

You continue glaring down at him, and his eyes slowly narrow up at you, like he can’t believe you haven’t done as he’s asked yet. Finally he hisses, “Well go on, then! You can’t do me like this! I’m sorry, okay? I’ve said it a hundred times now! You’re being ridiculous! And you’re still alive, aren’t you? Still kicking, for heaven’s sake! No harm done, really, I - _a-augh!!_ ” He grunts and sputters as you barely manage to kick him in the mouth, though you succeed in keeping him from weaseling any closer to you. Your toes smart painfully, but it’s worth the satisfaction of cutting his scrambling apologies short.

Shiva laughs at the sight of it, clearly amused to see Patches groveling at your mercy. When his amusement subsides, he gives you a short nod. “Give her your blade. I fear she would flatten under the weight of mine.”

Okay, perhaps he wasn't nodding at you.

Something takes your hand, something like a gentle pair of hands, though as you startle at the sudden touch and stare down to see what's grabbed you, you see nothing giving you that touch, nothing at all holding you. You try to pull away from that unseen hold on instinct, but those hands won't let you. They hold you still, carefully so, until you relent to them, and then the hilt of a sword is placed against your palm. Invisible fingers curl around your own, urging you to grip round the weight of the handle, and as they let go an uchigatana suddenly shimmers into view by your side. 

You inhale sharply at the sudden appearance of it in your hand, and turn to stare over your shoulder again to search for whatever invisible force has gifted you their weapon. There's nothing there.

“Go on,” Shiva says, and your nonplussed attention snaps back to him. His voice holds a satisfied edge as he watches you. 

With a phantom's sword and Shiva's encouragement, you turn down to stare at Patches, who is warily eying the shining length of your new sword. “Now… now ______,” he begins again, caught somewhere between disbelief and acute vexation at having his pet turn on him - and a pet cleric, no less. “You’ll get no more funny business out of me, friend - we, uh… ______, let’s just calm down. Use our words. Talk about things…” He swallows hard enough for you to almost hear it. “You don’t wanna do something you’ll regret! How would you live with yourself?! Just put the bloody sword down and I’ll let you go! We’ve just had a bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all, you silly, stupid thing! Now go on, and put the sword down… well go on then!”

You should probably feel pity for the man. Surely you should. 

But you don’t. You feel nothing but hate. And the depth of your hatred was carved into the bleeding walls of your heart by Patches' own hand. So surely he deserves this. You almost can’t even hear his pleading, really, for the steady drum of your hate-filled heart fills your ears, demanding that you exact vengeance upon him. 

And yet your sword hand still hesitates - you’ve never murdered anyone before. Never even dreamed of it. Perhaps Patches is right. Perhaps you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself afterward.

Shiva watches patiently for a time as you waver in vacillation, your fingers rippling along the hilt of your new blade, your brows furrowed into an apprehensive knot. Eventually, though, he reaches behind himself to sheath his heavy sword in the long scabbard strapped at the small of his back, so he can usher whatever unseen force lingers behind you to replace him at the doorway. 

Which the apparition apparently does, as Shiva shows little concern in leaving the doorway wide and open behind him as he walks toward you shortly after that.

He strides right past Patches as Patches scrambles in a hands-and-knees shuffle toward the open doorway behind him, making a mad dash effort to escape, only to be kicked aside by whatever ghost lingers there.

Patches glares at the nothingness in the doorway barring his path, before twisting back around to slither to your feet again. “This is madness, _______! We’re jolly outcasts, the both of us! You _have_ to let me go!”

“I have to?” you ask, your tone hard, yet threaded with your growing uncertainty. 

Shiva studies you beside him for a moment, before stepping toward Patches to place a booted foot upon the man’s shoulder, surprisingly soft, yet as he does he also applies more and more pressure, slowly pushing until Patches falls obediently onto his back. Propped up on his elbows, Patches stares up at the both of you, fear clawing at his every feature. His bald head sickly shines with a new wave of nervous sweat in the dim light.

Shiva falls back beside you, slipping one arm around yours to take your sword hand in his, looking down at you as you blink up at him. “Am I correct in observing you haven’t skill with a blade?”

Something thick with nerves is caught in your throat, and you swallow it before giving him a short nod.

He seems to smile - you can almost see his murky eyes squint with it from within his slated, golden helm. “Then allow this to be my first lesson to you. I will teach you the two best ways to kill a man.”

With a gentle, guiding touch, he steers the tip of your blade to Patches throat, directly upon the racing pulse point you see there. Patches is too petrified to do much other than stare - in fact, he seems genuinely baffled that you’re even still holding a blade to him. His fingers wriggle against the floor, and he sputters a few times in half-spoken objections.

“Stab him here if you wish to kill him swiftly,” Shiva tells you, leaning his words down to your ear. He then guides your blade-point to below Patches’ heart, to a place near his gut. “Stabbing him here,” Shiva mildly presses the blade against Patches’ leather armor, “will kill him slowly. He will suffer, and he will surely scream for you, should you wish to hear it. Death will not find him for quite some time as he lingers on the precipice of his own mortality and pain.”

He lets go of your sword hand, then, and takes a step back to watch you, regarding you in silence as you decide which path to take.

You hesitate only for as long as it takes for you to notice Reah’s clothing carelessly discarded on the floor by Patches’ satchel of other pilfered cleric goods. The thought of how Patches came into owning such wares refuels your rage, and without time to reconsider, your sword hand plunges, running him clean through that spot Shiva assured you would have him screaming in agony for you.

And scream he does. His howls of pain echo around the chamber, his screams quickly interspersed by hisses and incomprehensible curses, and you nearly drop your blade with the shock and horror of having caused it. 

You rip the blade out of his gut, and he keels over immediately, curling up on his side as he tries to stem the bleeding. Red seeps through his gloved fingers as he paws at himself. “You rotten…” he coughs, casting you a rancorous glare, wincing as he coughs again. “You no good maggot, you… you rotten cleric _bitch_. What did I ever...” his words catch, and he writhes in pain. 

You can’t look away from him, even though you want to. Your horror demands you face what it is you can’t believe you’ve just done, just as your wrath insists you relish every single moment of it. 

You’re so caught up in your battling emotions that you nearly jump out of your skin when Shiva’s hand touches yours again.

He chuckles at your little gasp, and at the way you twist your head in alarm to stare up at him, but he doesn’t say a word. He simply shifts his fingers over yours in a way meant to take the blade from your hands, and you lessen your grip to allow him what he wants. 

He takes the sullied blade, stooping down to wipe it clean of filth on the back of Patches’ shirt. Standing once more, he gives Patches a heedless, parting glance. “If you somehow manage to slither your way out of that fatal wound, Patches, you’d do well not to call on me again unless you find my blade. If you waste my time with anything else a second time, I’ll cut out your tongue before spilling every warm thing cradled in your gut, until you’re naught but an empty sack of flesh.”

Then, with a dexterous touch, Shiva flips the katana in his hand, extending its length out and toward the empty doorway by its newly cleaned blade, all in one swift movement. And something - someone - takes hold of its offered hilt, and as it does the blade falls invisible once again. 

Shiva relinquishes the ghost-like blade to its ghost-like owner, before coming back toward you. He steps over a writhing, groaning Patches bleeding all over the floor as if his presence there were a mere inconvenience, like a hitch in the road, one leading him to stand directly in front of you. You’re forced to crane your neck up in order to meet his shadowed gaze.

“You belong to me now,” he tells you as you stare, meeting your bewildered gaze with a steady one of his own. “You offered. And I accepted.” He watches you a moment more, as if to make sure you won’t object. “Now come,” he turns, expecting you to follow.

Staring after him, you almost have half a mind to try to push past his retreat and escape somewhere, instead, off into the distance beyond this terrible place. But you surely couldn’t manage such a thing - this man is clearly an expert swordsman, and is allied with some kind of unseen phantom on top of that. He’d catch you before you managed to make it very far. Probably even before you made it out of this room.

Your only choice is to go along with him, as he ordered you to.

With one last glance at a cursing, writhing Patches, you hurry around him to pluck up the discarded cleric’s robes left abandoned on the ground.

Shiva pauses just long enough to see what’s taking you so long to obey him, but makes no mention of reprimand when he sees the reason for your delay. He watches as you scurry along after him, your new robes hugged in a haphazard pile against your chest.

Your gaze is nervous as it meets his, but he doesn’t meet it for long. He walks out of the small, stone room, and you trail along behind him as new inklings of apprehension and uncertainty weigh your every step, and nerves tighten your fingers into the fabric held to your chest.

You have no idea what to expect from this new master you’ve found yourself belonging to, but you won’t continue to be owned, by him or by anyone. 

You don’t know how yet, or if you’ll even survive long enough to make any such attempt, but as soon as the opportunity presents itself you mean to free yourself and escape. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay i love revenge!
> 
> Dear Patches fans...... *drops down and grovels at your feet* Please don't hurt me! I didn't mean it, okay?! It was only a flesh wound! He's probably alright, right? He can slither his way out of this tight one? All's well that ends well! We're still friends, aren't we?! A couple of jolly undeads?
> 
> I... I know how I can make it up to you! Look, over there *points down a chasm filled with wheely skeletons, giant pools of acid, endless amounts of deadly vapors, not to mention a cave troll* There’s some treasure down there with your name on it! I saw it first, but… we’re friends! And I owe you for the whole, er, Patches dying in unhurried agony thing... So it’s all yours!
> 
> Welllllllll in any case… buh-bye for now Patches *finger wave* 
> 
> I’m excited to start the Shiva portion of this tale, but I’ma probably write some requests first, however many, like… this many *makes not-at-all-helpful hand gesture*, and then we’ll return to wrap up The Cleric Arc, which may have some desperate escape attempts, potential threesomes (okay maybe more like for-sure threesomes), intrigue and romance and chills and thrills and all that on the horizon. 
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> Artorias the Abysswalker  
> The Pursuer  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Greirat  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Solaire of Astora
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	9. Knight Artorias pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step 1: makeout with Artorias  
> Step 2: save Artorias' life  
> Step 3: profit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to wriiiittteeeeeeee!
> 
> Couple things
> 
> 1- I hate Old English. I think this is because when I was a wee lass, some Old English bloke beat me up and stole my lunch money. As such, I’m not going to write a lot of dialogue as Old English (it triggers me, I can still hear the screams - i just wanted a pb&j from the cafeteria that tragic day, but now I’ll never know how good it tasted... u_u). But I’ll toss in a few bits here and there to appease any Old English fanatics out there.
> 
> 2- This storyline is based on fan theories that I thought were super fun! It’s also before the fall of Oolacile. So there’s actual lore mixed in with fan theory mixed in with my own imagination, do with that as you will.
> 
> 3- I made up a cat name (yes, a cat name, it’ll make sense just bear with me). I went with Casca, in honor of Artorias’ spirit animal, Guts :) I fucking love me some Guts (Any Berserk fans out there? Can’t my boy just get his happy ending already TT_TT???)
> 
> 4- Oh one last thing! Ciaran x Artorias was requested, but in THIS tale, Ciaran and Artorias are just friends, in fact Ciaran is in a happy and hot relationship with one of her fellow Lord’s Blades. Leaving Artorias wide open for some lovin. Nya ha ha ha ha
> 
> 5- Oh one more last thing for reals this time, if anyone’s interested, Sif’s backstory was inspired by the fan theory in this comic, https://imgur.com/a/8pmZa
> 
> 6- Okay this is *really* the last one. I did proof read this, but sorry in advance for any hiccups or stumbles or whathaveyou and whatnotness

**♡The future of Oolacile lies in your hands, starring…. Artorias the Wolf♡**

* * *

The sun casts a delicious warmth atop the blanket of treetop above you, bits of its light peeking through the leaves like shining diamonds, too brilliant to look at for very long. And despite its heat, the forest breeze washes over your skin in a shadow-cooled stream, smelling of fresh, woody saplings, newly born and rising from the soil. The air holds promises of spring, carrying with it the earthy pigments of fledgling leaves and the damp of the nearby river, too far away to hear the murmur of, but you smell its presence - and you know it well, for you know everything about these woods like the back of your own hand. 

This section of forest, hidden well behind thick underbrush, roaring rivers, and treacherous ravines, is kept buried and well away from the more traveled depths of the Royal Wood, and further still from the Township of Oolacile, that sorcerer’s kingdom of Lordran. 

Oolacile… you hate the place, crawling with sorcerers as it is. Then again, you're fairly certain you hate all humans, wield they magic or steel. 

But you shake such thoughts from you now. Today is far too perfect a day to think about humans. You focus instead on the feeling of the bark behind your back as you lay against the crook of a large branch and its adjoining tree trunk, your arms cradling your head like a well-worn pillow, lazing about a good thirty feet in the air. It’s one of your favorite spots in which to watch the morning sun dazzle like gemstones above the treeline, and unlike most humans, you’re more than comfortable to be so high up in the trees. Alvina and the others have taught you well in the joys of climbing, and of the advantages being near the sky allows, especially when spying on –

_...What was that….?_

A sudden sound intrudes your lazy morning musings, and your brows furrow to receive it. 

Such a sound should not exist in these woods. And yet, there it is, echoing through the trees, scratching at your ears. Something heavy, something uninvited, something traveling with purpose.

Slowly, you flip around to better hide and watch your position, your belly flush with the length of branch beneath you as you listen. Your eyes crawl along the forest floor far below you, and though you see nothing moving, you can still hear whatever it is, stomping it would seem, somewhere off in the distance. Footsteps, ones that vibrate the earth far more than any man's should. Whomever is making them is large in stature, and careless in nature. They’ll pay for that last part, for it's drawn your attention toward their intrusion here.

No one will make it past you in these woods if you have any say about it, though you have to admit… it’s disconcerting that whatever is lumbering through the trees has made it this far without Alvina or the other cats stopping it. Your chest constricts at the creeping thought that perhaps this is because whatever intrudes upon Alvina’s woods has crossed paths with your feline brethren, already, and left their beaten, broken bodies in its path here. 

You bite down hard on your lip - _no_ , surely that couldn’t be, the cats are powerful, cautious creatures. You must simply be the first to hear this careless, oafish beast parading through these trees, that’s all. And as such, it’s up to you to stop the fiend before it finds Alvina and the others. Before it finds and ransacks your home. 

You begin slipping soundlessly down the length of tree, your heart thrumming with determination. Whatever creature this is must get through you before finding your home. And you don’t mean to make it easy for them, no matter their size.

Plopping silently to the ground, you begin slinking deftly through these woods you know so well, careful to avoid the bits of earth you know will give sound to your presence as you pass. The creature you pursue is indeed tall, and its every footstep brings it further from you with a giant’s ease, forcing you to speed up your pace a bit recklessly just to keep up. 

You hurry along, slipping and sprinting as quietly as you're able through the underbrush. And then you spot him. The beast. The man. For what you thought a giant beast is in fact a man, and your sneaking steps pause in their shock to see it, as do the beats of your hunter’s heart. 

How are you supposed to stop a man like _that_ from venturing further into the forest? 

He’s encased head to toe in ornate platemail, expertly crafted and fitted specifically for him, to his every slender curve and strong feature. He carries an impressive shield and an even more impressive greatsword, one without a scabbard, the length of it resting across one of his shoulders. Atop his head a length of unusual fur-like hair sprouts like the plumage of a proud bird. He has a certain grace about him, like a dancer perhaps, and yet his footsteps are thoughtless as they kick through the earth, like he isn’t even _trying_ to be quiet in his trespasses here. 

If this wasn’t bad enough already, the man is also at least nine feet tall, completely dwarfing you in comparison. You’ve never seen a man as tall as he in your entire life, and you wonder if perhaps there is even a man at all inside that shell of armor. His sword is probably taller than you are, as well, and heavy enough to require very little beyond its own weight to cut you down.

You unsheathe the sellsword twinblades Alvina gave you when you first found her a year ago, when you first came here to live in these woods. You know well your small blades are no match for this giant man or his giant sword. But you must try to divert his course from the others, for on his current path, he’s heading straight toward them. They must be unaware of his presence, or surely they’d be in formation to help you stop him. This is up to you alone, it seems, for you can't allow your home’s sacred hiding place to be desecrated by this towering intruder.

Eying the glint of your slender swords, you decide stealth and surprise are your only advantages against such an enemy, and you mean to use them well.

You slip through the shadows after the man, slowly gaining on him as cautiously as you can - he isn’t making the task an easy one, what with his lumbering paces. Perhaps you’ll cut his legs down to size if he refuses to leave your woods, first and foremost, before ridding him of his flashy peacock’s head.

Suddenly, he stops, and after skirting into a nearby bush, so do you, your eyes never leaving him. Is he listening for something? Has he perhaps heard you, after all…? You bite down on your cheek as you wait and listen. You're not normally so careless in your pursuits, but your prey is getting closer to Alvina and the others than you can allow.

“Sif?” the man asks aloud, his voice deep, and not unkind.

_Sif?_

The man comes with a companion, then. This isn’t good. You barely think you’ll be able to take out one of these giants, let alone two.

You can’t afford to wait for a more opportune moment. You should strike now _,_ before his companion Sif comes to his aid. And then you can worry about this Sif fellow, after the blue and steel peacock is dealt with by your blades.

 _Honestly,_ you grumble inwardly, both impressed and intimidated by the man’s expensive armor as you watch him and scurry closer still. You slip away from the bushes, soundlessly resheathing your swords so you can begin to pull yourself up into the heights of the nearest tree, stealing glances at his exquisite platemail as you do. _Who wears something so garish? Who does he think he is?_

“Sif?” the man calls again, just as you ready yourself in the branches above where he stands. Your twinswords meet the light once more, and though you know you didn’t make a single sound - you were extremely cautious not to - the man’s instincts are sharp. He glances upward just as you plummet down from the height of the trees and toward him, but it doesn’t matter, because your swords are light and quick, and someone wearing that much heavy armor and weaponry couldn’t possibly react in time to stop you now that you’ve plunged to strike.

Only, he does stop you, somehow - his shield flies into you, sending you barreling off into the underbrush. The impact has you reeling, though as you roll like a tossed doll across the ground, you manage to catch yourself at last before scurrying off into the hidden safety of the nearby bushes.

The element of surprise is lost, and with it any hope of winning this fight. The man is on high alert now, and he stands with his shield and greatsword ready, waiting, listening should you seek to approach him once more. And what's worse; he knows to eye the trees as he waits for you now, which is your preferred method of attack. But you won’t give up. You’ll die fighting this intruder, if you must, but you _will_ fight to protect your home and your family, just as any of your fellow cats would.

However, since he already knows of your presence, perhaps a bit of diplomacy might be attempted first. “Go away!” you call from the bushes, in as intimidating a voice as your willowy form can muster. You carefully move away from that spot and into another, just in case he means to strike at the sound of your voice.

He makes no move to drive his sword through the bushes, however, though his gaze seems to follow your movements. “I cannot,” he responds at last, looking at where you once crouched beneath the leaves and shrubberies. 

Your fingers curl angrily against the dirt as you glare at him from your newest hiding spot. “Leave now!” you warn again, scurrying away again. “Or I’ll strike you down where you stand, human! Your kind does not belong in these woods!”

Apparently he finds your threats funny, because he chuckles a bit in response. “Come out here and face me then, stealthy little creature. I didn’t quite see what you are, but you seemed rather human to me.” He turns toward where he thinks you’ve next shifted to hide, and he’s not that far off despite your stealth. “Perhaps you ought heed your own advice, and rid these woods of your presence as well.”

He appears to know where you’re hidden, somehow, infuriatingly so, and so you stand to openly face him, as a fearless warrior must. For some reason he takes a slight step back at the sight of you, as if _you_ were the intimidating one covered head to toe in plated armor, though maybe he’s just surprised to see a girl with slightly wild hair, sharp eyes, and a dress frayed so short it barely resembles a dress at all anymore. The trees have had their way with its hem, but you also tore much of its length away yourself, lest it keep you from your daily climbing. You were completely fine with your old tatters Alvina first found you in, as threadbare as they were, but Alvina insisted you wear a dress, and what you’re wearing now is somehow the compromise between both garments.

Turning fully toward you, he eventually appears to gather whatever part of himself was displaced by the sight of you. “Ah,” he muses gently. “So you _are_ human.”

Your hands twist against the hilts of the curved blades held at both your sides, and you stare up at him with gritted resolve. You're nervous, surely, but you're not afraid to face an enemy if it means protecting those you care about. To do that will never place fear in your heart, only steadfast resolve to do whatever it is necessary. 

“Perhaps I am," you mutter at the stranger.

“Perhaps?” he wonders. “Is there a question of your humanity?”

“My humanity is none of your concern, seeing as how I am allowed to step foot in these trees regardless, and you are not!”

“Oh, but of course,” the man returns with an air of sarcasm, his shield hand dropping, as if he doesn’t think you’re a threat worthy of his shield at all. The unspoken insult has you bristling. “Pray tell what this difference between us is, then?”

“I’ve been invited here,” you growl.

He gives the smallest of shrugs, one only perceptible because of the perfect fit of his armor. “As have I.”

“Humans are not invited to these woods!”

“You were, by your own account, or have you forgotten that part?”

You scowl at his mocking tone. You’ve had enough of this man’s insults and lies - there’s no possible way he was invited to this place, you would have known about it. 

_So be it,_ you inwardly growl, and slowly begin making your way toward him, your bare legs pushing past the bushes surrounding you, your eyes never leaving his hidden, hooded face as he watches you approach without a care. “This is your last warning, human - leave these woods or lose your head!”

As you draw closer, you can see enough of his face to witness his responding smirk towering above you. “You truly believe I am human?”

That has you hesitating a bit, as you size him up yet again. “It matters not _what_ you are,” you grumble. “These woods belong to my family, and I will protect both them and our home at any cost. I would not tolerate their trespass even were you an armored broomstick.”

He bites back a chuckle, even as your swords raise in readiness to strike. “Then come,” he goads, his long arms spread in open invitation. “And see if you can cut this broomstick down, little human. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

To charge at him would be truly foolish, but what choice do you have? You start toward him, your steps lowered, keeping you close enough to the ground so you can scoop up a fistful of earth to throw up in his face. You’re not sure you’ve succeeded until he sputters, and you smirk at the sound of it.

_That’s what you get for underestimating me, you rotten broomstick._

You have no time to waste in his brief blindness, and leap up to climb him as you would a tree, hacking at what you hope is a weakness in his armor below the bend of one silver shoulder-plates.

Your blade finds no purchase, however, its edge sparking right off him, and you curse under your breath before being grabbed by the back of your dress and tossed away like you weigh nothing at all.

You land harsh and flat on your belly, the ground battering your lungs on impact, but you right yourself as quickly as you can, refusing to show this man how easily he’s managed to cast you aside, or how weak you are in comparison to himself. 

You rush him again, barely dodging his shield as he seeks to bat you away with it again, though as you drop to slide past him, your blades readied to strike, he catches you with the top of one foot and easily flings you off into the dirt again.

His face is shadowed by his armored hood as he looks down at you, but you feel the weight of his gaze as he watches you struggle onto your hands and knees. For whatever reason, he makes no move to strike you down despite the ease of which he could do so. Your glare meets him, unflinching despite your scrambled stance in the dirt. 

“You have no hope in winning this fight,” he tells you bluntly, not sounding in the least concerned to have you as an enemy. “Give up now, and allow me passage.”

“I will never allow such a thing,” you hiss, pushing yourself up before lunging at him once again. He swings his blade at you this time and you jump, twisting over its length as you push forward and grab hold of him. He grunts in surprise and grabs at you with his sword still in hand, but his fingers slip off your legs. You’re a swift climber, and his armor has many facets in which to aid your ascent. “And if I cannot win this fight,” you avow, just as you reach out to grab the trail of dark hair sprouting from his helm, “then I will at least take your plumage as payment for your trespass.”

He manages to grab your ankle before you do, pulling you down his length and then away from him entirely, tossing you off and into the earth at his feet, before pinning you to your back beneath one silver plated boot. “Stop this,” he demands firmly, pressing down as you try to squirm out from under him. “You’re far outmatched, little one, and I’ve little time to spare your continued and fruitless attempts to block my path.”

Perhaps he has forgotten that you still have your swords, or maybe he simply doesn’t care, but you slash out at his knee all the same, ushering a downpour of sparks from each of your bladed edges. The shower of light distracts his weight upon you just so, barely enough for you to twist out from under him and scurry off into the bushes before he can stop you. 

“You’re a fool!” he calls after you, his hidden eyes seeking your location in the underbrush. “And do you truly insist on being a _dead_ fool?”

“If that's what it takes to stop you!” you call to him, slinking through the bushes as you do, waiting for his cautious gaze to lose you. 

You have only one method left in hoping to stop him, and it’s truly a desperate one, for the only piece of him not protected by steel is his hooded face. If you can manage to sink your blades there, you will surely kill him. But you must first avoid his searching gaze long enough to sneak up behind him. “Strike me down if you must,” you call, diverting his attention to one area, only to dart away to another. “But I will never allow you a step further so long as I remain living!”

“I had little idea human’s were so noble,” he muses, his eyes always one step behind your hidden path, but close in their wake nonetheless. “If you are truly a guest of these woods, as I am, as I _told_ you I was, then I would not see you harmed, little one. So stop this madness, for you cannot win, and if you continue to attack me I _will_ be forced to kill you.”

“Just as I am forced to kill _you_ ,” you hiss, at last lunging out of the bushes to strike. You leap up onto his back, and he swings the blunt end of his sword over one shoulder to swat you away. The thing is like the iron blade of a giant windmill, and its heavy length rams into your body with so much force you instantly lose your grip and are sent flying on a harsh collision course with the ground. And despite his decision to bluntly bat you away instead of cut right through you, the edge of his greatsword still slices a weeping wound down your forearm, and when you manage to catch yourself from tumbling, you grab hold of your arm to stem the bleeding. Slowly, you wobble back to your feet to face him, feeling more and more like a cornered animal. But you will not drop your weapons, and you do not back away.

He glances at you over his shoulder, appearing to eye your bloodied arm. “You brought that wound on yourself. I did warn you.”

“You’ll have to cut much deeper than that to stop me,” you assure him, coming at him a bit desperately now. You swing your blades at him, and his greatsword blocks the blows as if he’d invited them to himself. You swing again, and again, little angry bursts of breath escaping your lungs with each attempt to slay him, though he continues to curb every strike with cavalier ease.

His greatsword swings at your waist, and with no time to dodge, you somehow block the giant blade that should have cut right through you with the edge of both your swords. Surely such a heavy blade could have barreled right through you despite this, and your brows knit in bewilderment to still be breathing.

“You can’t hope to actually block a blow from me with those tiny swords,” he says, watching for your understanding as he more or less confirms his decision to let you live past that moment. “I could have easily broken through. Next time you should deflect my blade, instead; use my strength against me to throw me off balance.”

He swings again, and you skirt your blades across his, redirecting its path into the dirt, where its tip sinks into the earth with a heavy _thop_ and a plume of dust. You stare down at it in surprise, stunned by how well his own advice worked against him, before glancing up at his face, confusion giving you pause from following through with another attack. Your brows pull into a knot to see him smiling down at you, like he’s proud or something. “You’re a quick study. I think perhaps with practice you could even be quite good someday.”

You have no idea what kind of game he thinks he’s playing, and you yell out in frustration as you run forth to strike. He of course bats your swords away like one would a child wielding two sticks. 

“Though you’re incredibly easy to predict,” he chastises, his attention following you as you stumble past him. “Stop announcing your charges for all the world to hear.”

He drops his heavy shield to the earth, before motioning you forward with his newly freed hand. “Come on, then. Have you given up already? I still have much to teach you.”

“I already told you, I won't stop until one of us is dead!” you vow, and you mean it, down to your very bones. You rush him again, sidestepping his attempt to block your feigned attack, spinning round his greatsword so you can lunge up to sink one of your blades as close as you can to his throat.

His free hand grabs you mid jump, and tosses you into the trunk of a nearby tree. Your back hits against it so sharply that it takes you a moment to clear the pinpricks of blackness that spot your vision, though you blink them away as quickly as you can before lunging forward again, swinging both your blades in a relentless barrage of attacks.

He blocks them all, no matter the angle, no matter the intensity, and as he does he slowly moves in on you, forcing your steps to retreat backward as you continue to swing at him with growing exhaustion and desperation. 

Your back bumps into the trunk of the tree behind you, and the man steps forward at once to pin you there. His greatsword drops to the earth, and he plucks both of your swords from your hands to join it. He lifts your body high enough against the tree to face him directly at his towering height.

“Enough,” he says, and you’re close enough to see the lower half of his face below his blue hood. His skin is pale, and would have been like perfect porcelain if not for the few ivory scars you notice along his strong jaw. A few tufts of short, black hair peek out along his angled cheekbones, like they were ruffled free of his helm in the chaos.

You glare at that face, for you can do nothing else in his powerful grip. “Say ‘enough’ all you like,” you murmur, your words burning with their conviction. “It will never be enough until my family is safe. I’ve not given enough until I’ve given everything to stop you. Now let me go and fight me you coward!”

He contemplates you a moment. “You are perhaps the most foolishly stubborn woman I’ve ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with.” His free hand finds your throat, his steeled fingers curling round it, tightening until you can barely draw breath. “Your resolve is folly. I will kill you if you do not submit. Is this truly how you wish to die?”

You will not show him fear, not even when all hope has left you. You fought as well as you could, and you have no regrets other than that of your own weakness and failure to defeat this foe. You cannot fathom to regret giving all you had to save Alvina and the others, no matter your fate. 

Twisting against his hold as best you can, your eyes sharp as shining daggers, you manage to rasp past his tightened grip, “Do what you must! For if you don’t kill me now, I will find a way to stop you!”

He holds you there a moment more, his grip around your neck lessening just slightly as he does. Eyes narrowed and wary, you watch him as he watches you, and then he leans in and captures your lips with his own. 

Your whole body jolts in surprise, and a little sound of shock mumbles against the press of his mouth against yours. But even so, his lips on your own, although unexpected, they aren’t… entirely unpleasant. Adrenaline fuels through you, singing through your veins in an attempt to free itself, and it finds its release by kissing him back. At least, that's the reason you give yourself, the reason why your lips slide across his, and why they part to allow him to lick into your mouth. His tongue meets yours before chasing after it, and his hand slips from the front of your throat to the back of it in order to pull you close and deepen your kiss. He angles his face over yours, his tongue delving into you with earnest, mapping the shape of your mouth and tongue with the warmth of his own.

You’re too lost on yourself and exhausted from battle to question the insanity of it. Your hands seek him out, to grab hold of him, like even now he isn’t close enough. A budding warmth begins to hum between your legs and elicits a small, breathy noise from your lips, which he laps up with growing hunger. 

But just as suddenly, he pulls away with a muted gasp. “I…” he murmurs at once, though the rest of his words hang unspoken in hesitation, like he can’t quite believe his own actions. “Forgive me…”

You lean forward from your place against the tree to meet his lips again, and the deep hum he makes when you do vibrates through the dance of your quickly retangling tongues. 

A soft moan escapes you, unfurling around your heated kiss, and it draws toward it some fast building flame tugging him toward you. His hand seeks to explore you, clawing at your waist, then your breasts, kneading into their gentle swells as his breath grows ragged, and your own strains to join it.

He slips his mouth away from yours in order to breathe heavily against your cheek. “This… forgive me,” he rasps again, and you manage to cup his cheek, to bring his mouth back to brush against yours.

“Touch me,” you implore against his lips, before devouring them once more. He kisses you, biting once at the plush of your lip, tugging ever so slightly as his hand on your breast resumes its exploration at your encouragement, and his fingers seek the growing tautness of your nipple peeking through your thin dress.

With a decided lack of patience, he rips the gauntlet away from that hand, tossing it aside before his bared fingertips trail the curve of your breast. His breath hitches when his fingertips feel your nipples hardness, and his darting tongue presses into yours with growing urgency. Your kiss is so caught in the depths of passion the both of you can hardly breathe under it. And yet neither of you care, despite being enemies, for your need for one another is more important than air.

A low yip in the distance distracts you both enough from your lust-fueled blindness to barely bring your mouths apart, though the man holds your lips to his even then, like he’s reluctant to fully let their softness and warmth stray from him for even a moment.

Another yip, almost like a dog’s bark, has you both turning to glance down at a large, gray wolf staring at the both of you. It’s perhaps the largest wolf you’ve ever seen, and you stifle back an alarmed shriek at the sight of it standing so close, which for some reason just makes the man holding you laugh.

“He will not harm you,” he assures, turning away from the wolf as if to see such a beast there does not alarm him in the slightest. He kisses the side of your mouth once, and then again. His tongue seeks entrance between your lips again, but he’s forced to pull back a bit when the wolf growls beside the two of you.

It would seem the wolf is growling at _you,_ and being the defiant and fearless animal that you are, you hiss not unlike one of your feline brethren back at it. The wolf’s growl fizzles out into a confused head tilt as it blinks up at you, and the man laughs again. 

You turn your indignation on him next. “You will stop laughing at me this instant!”

“Perhaps I might if you stopped hissing like a cat,” he broods with a grin, his lips still flushed from kissing you. “You’re far from a cat…” though as he states this, his words falter behind a newly forming thought, and his smile fades. “You said your family lives in these woods?”

“The man can listen,” you return sarcastically, to which a barely amused huff of air escapes his strong nose. 

“You are not, perchance, a relative of Alvina?” he questions, tacking on a bit dubiously, “relative being a relative term, seeing as how you are indeed not a cat.”

You can’t help but to stare at him for a few moments, your eyes blinking wider as you do, and your words trip over themselves when you finally respond, “You… you know Alvina? How do you know her?”

“She has a place in Lord Gwyn’s pantheon,” the man says, which hardly explains a thing. “She has also asked that I meet with her here, though for what reason I should be brought all this way, I know not. But Alvina is a friend, and if she summons me with haste, she shall receive me thusly.” He studies you for a moment, watching the tremors of disbelief waver across your face. “Do you know Alvina, then, little cat?”

Slowly, you nod. You reach up toward his face, grabbing the blue of his cowl to peel its curtain back, enough so you can fully see his features, and he makes no move to stop you. You nearly gasp in surprise when you see his face. His eyes are beautiful, like clear streams of blue, or flawless, pale sapphires, and as you meet their azure glow you have to stop yourself from tripping and falling into their depths. 

“I…” you breathe, your eyes dancing over the glimmer of his own for a distracted moment. You swallow something nonexistent in your throat before managing, “I know her, yes. She is dear to me, and a part of my family, as are the others in our pride.”

His gemstone eyes search yours for more answers than that, though you say nothing as you stare back at him, not exactly sure what it is he even wants to hear. “Well then,” he says at last, a bit of mirth drawing his lips. “That explains the hissing, at least. As for what required I travel all this way, I might ask if you know anything of it…” He pauses to study you, the intensity of his blue eyes enough to make you dizzy. “Though if you knew the reason why, surely you wouldn’t have attacked me the second you saw me in these woods. Perhaps Alvina forgot to mention her invitation of a Lord here.”

“A Lord?” you repeat, blinking quickly in your struggled attempt to swallow this new information.

He smiles, its shape gentle and warm. It’s quite inviting, in fact, and you find yourself wanting to press your lips against his again, though now that you know you were kissing a _Lord_ your heart is stuttering with newfound nerves. “I am Knight Artorias, one of Lord Gwyn’s four. I suppose I could have introduced myself beforehand.”

“I suppose you could have,” you say with growing annoyance and apprehension.

His smile broadens with his amusement at that. “Well you seemed rather keen in driving a sword through me. It was quite the distraction.” His bared fingertips brush the side of your face, and a fluttering like butterfly wings seeks escape from your belly as they do. “Though you are nothing if not distracting, little human. And if you would, please tell me your name, so that I might have something more appropriate to call a distraction such as you.”

“I’ll tell you my name when you put me back on solid ground,” you counter, and he balks with a bit of surprise.

“Oh!” he seems to realize he’s still holding you captive against a tree, and he gently lowers you to the ground before releasing you. Though perhaps you should have simply let him hold you there, because now you’re forced to look up at him when you speak, as if talking with a giant. The man is nearly double your own height. “Forgive me, daughter of Alvina.”

You brush yourself off a bit, not that your rather dirty clothing requires much brushing off of anything. It’s a bit of a hopeless garment, really. “My name is _______,” you tell him, as you said you would, craning up to meet his shadowed gaze. 

“_______,” he repeats thoughtfully, a slow smile forming. “A lovely name, to be sure. Though perhaps I prefer ‘little cat’, after all.”

“Perhaps you also prefer to have such a name clawed off your tongue by my cat-like claws.”

“If you think you can manage it, little cat,” he grins at your irritable scowl. “Though you didn’t seem to have any qualms with my tongue a moment ago.”

Your cheeks creep with warmth, but you remain steadfast in your stubborn glout. “Perhaps I’ll just claw something else of yours, then.”

“I think you’ll find the rest of me as enjoyable as my tongue.”

 _This man is without shame!_ you grumble inwardly, even as your face glows pink at the many ideas his words inspire. Your arms fold across your chest, as if they could somehow protect you from this Knight and his Lordly tongue. “ _Perhaps,_ Lord Artorias, I might lead you to Alvina, and our discussion of tongues can continue another time.”

“Very well,” he relents. “I look forward to wherever else such discussion might lead us.” He smiles, taking a step toward you, which just makes you have to crane your neck upward all the more. In fact, you’ve half a mind to think his height is specifically designed just to torment and annoy you. “Lead the way, little cat, for Alvina gave word of haste, and you’ve distracted me for far longer than I should have allowed already.”

You turn to do just that, only your eyes catch nervously on that giant wolf watching you with its glowing eyes, and you hesitate as you stare at it.

Artorias places a gentle hand on the wolf’s head. “This is my compatriot Sif, and he will not harm you, as I said. You needn’t worry on his account, little one.”

You shift your wary gaze between the two of them, the wolf and his knight. “If you say so,” you relent at last, and turn to lead your newfound party further into the trees, toward Alvina and your hidden home deeper in the forest. And as you do, you can’t help but wonder on what reason Alvina could possibly have for requesting the presence of this knight, this member of Lord Gwyn’s four, to meet with her all the way out here, and why she did not think to tell you a thing about doing so.

Casca, a large, ashy cat with speckles of black, notices your party arrive first, as the group of you nears the tightly knit grove of trees you call home. She stands upon sighting you, and you call out to insist, “It’s alright, he’s with me–” only to cut yourself short when you see Casca is already dipping her giant cat’s head to Artorias in reverence and greeting.

You stop in surprise, and both Artorias and Sif pass you by, Artorias chuckling as they do. “It would appear you are the only cat who doesn’t know me, or treat a Lord with the respect he deserves,” he chastises, though you aren’t completely sure he isn’t just teasing you.

In any case, you frown at his back as he strides into the home of Alvina and her pride - into _your_ home - like he owns the place.

 _Lords,_ you inwardly scoff, forcing yourself to trail along after them. _They must wear fancy armor, take to your home as they please, and be treated like dainty teacups; ones that might shatter should you address them even once improperly._

Alvina is sitting on her ancient, rotted tree’s trunk, nestled near the center’s edge of the small clearing that serves as a central point of this small grove. She’s licking at one gray paw as the three of you approach, her tongue massaging away any soot that might linger on her impressive claws, though their glisten retracts at once at the moment she sees your party. 

She glances at the other large cats snoozing about the clearing. “Leave us,” she demands at once, and lazily they obey, bowing first to Artorias as they one by one slip away through the trees, or pounce over the remains of ruined walls that barely surround this long ago deserted place.

Alvina’s warm, orange eyes turn on you next, as the three of you stop in the clearing and stand before her perch. “You too, young one.”

Your lips part in surprise, brows drawn in a question. “But Alvi–”

“Spare me your tongue,” Alvina snips, her patience a curt and careful thing. “Go, young one. I would have words with Lord Artorias and his compatriot alone.”

You’re upset to be sent away like this, but you can’t bring yourself to be angry with Alvina, not after all she’s done for you. With one last glance at both her and Artorias standing tall beside you, you grit your teeth in silence and slink away into the trees as obediently as the others in your family, trailing after their retreat. 

And _really…_ Alvina should have known better, than to think you were _actually_ going to follow her orders not to listen in. The curiosity of a cat was always something she found charming about you, after all, and you aren’t about to set aside your curiosity now. And so you slip away into the trees, as a loyal servant must, only to sink into a lowered sprint straight away afterward, one that carries you silently to one of the largest trees overhanging the clearing. You begin to climb, carefully, but as swiftly as you can, so that you won’t miss a word of why Alvina has brought a Lord into your far away midst. 

You know Alvina has a sharp ear, though, and Artorias as well. The Lord’s wolf, Sif, likely has a keen sense of hearing as well, so you must be thrice as cautious. You slip along the branches, finally reaching the one thick enough to hide your form, and whose wayward length also spans over much of the clearing below it. The perfect place to perch upon and listen in.

By the time you slither out far enough and are right above the group in the clearing, however, you fear you have missed at least part of the conversation, already. 

“I fear they are up to something most foul,” you hear Alvina say. “I have found two more wandering the wood, more broken than even she was.”

“How came you to conclude the sorcerers’ involvement?” Artorias asks, his tone dubious but not unconcerned. 

“Their wounds weren’t just physical in nature,” Alvina explains, her old voice lowering. You remain flat on your belly, while also leaning over the branch as far as you dare in order to hear her as she continues. “Dark sorceries tore apart their psyches, and even after lingered in their minds. Such sorceries I’ve yet to come across in all my years. New, insidious things. Dangerous, and raw… perhaps barely controlled.” She pauses. “I fear they are stretching the limits of humanity in order to discover and hone such magic.”

“What would drive them to such a thing?” Artorias wonders aloud.

“You know well the greed of humans,” Alvina lowly purrs. “Need they a reason other than their insatiable lust for power? In any case, I’ve had my cats spy what they might of their Oolacile dungeons, though they can only get so close without being seen. And even still, what they find disturbs me. Many humans are brought there, laborers and prisoners alike, and oft they never leave. Whatever their task is, I beseech you discover it, and put an end to things, for I suspect those sorcerers indeed dabble too deeply in the darkness. And whatever such a secretive and grand task it be, I fear it could also very well be the ruin of Oolacile itself.”

“You truly believe their power to be so great?” Artorias questions, and you don’t hear Alvina respond. The knight’s next words are hard as steel. “Why have you not brought this to the attention of Lord Gwyn?”

“I would have you confirm my suspicions first, my Lord Artorias,” Alvina responds. “And I trust you to be able to handle things with a deft hand. Though I would not ask you to do so alone.”

“I will take Sif,” Artorias assures her. 

“I would not advise it, but you will do as you will,” Alvina says. “But I mean not the wolf. I ask that you take the human girl, _______, with you.”

You have to brace yourself from slipping off the branch you cling to in surprise of hearing this, and can hear the disbelief in Artorias’ voice as well. “_______?” he repeats, a question of whether or not he heard Alvina correctly, though the wizened cat does not seek to correct anything misspoken. “Surely you cannot mean for me to bring her into the belly of such a place, if it is in actuality as dangerous as you say.”

“She escaped their dungeons,” Alvina says, and your heart freezes over. 

You remember nothing of your past life, of whatever you were before Alvina brought you here nearly one year ago. Many times you have asked her where you came from, but she has never told you, nor has she spoken of any dungeons. And now she speaks openly of such things? And of you having escaped such a place as that? 

Alvina continues, “I know not how, and her memory is in tatters after what they did to her. But should she see the prison walls and depths, it may spark something, a kindling of recollection, and she may remember how to navigate your way down to their hidden depths. If she can manage it, such navigation could prove invaluable to you, for I know not how deeply those dungeons delve, though I suspect the laborers brought there are used to dig its many hollows and pathways further still into the darkness.”

Pressing your cheek against the bark below you in an attempt to anchor yourself, to keep the spinning of your mind at bay as it threatens to derail you, you try desperately to remember a single thing of what Alvina says you’ve experienced, but you remember nothing. Nothing at all. Though apparently you are an escaped prisoner of Oolacile, held for reasons you may never know, and whatever was done to you there wiped your memory clean. And even though you cannot remember, even the act of trying has your lungs and heart trembling, and you cover your mouth with one hand to keep from crying out. What on earth is this feeling of absolute dread? And why can you not remember the things Alvina speaks of?

“I would not put her in harm's way,” Artorias says, rejecting Alvina’s advice. “I will manage to navigate those depths without her guidance. I work best alone, besides.”

Alvina seems to quietly laugh. “Are you so fond of my daughter, Lord Artorias? Or are you simply too stubborn to accept the aid she might give you?”

The silence that follows is hesitant. “Like I said,” he says at last. “I would not see her harmed, for any reason.”

And despite your growing dread at the prospect of facing whatever dungeons ravaged your mind and memory, your vicious curiosity burns bright as always within you, and you lean over the branch on which you lay despite how foolish to do so might be. “I’m coming with you!”

The three of them look up at your scowling, determined face peering down at them from the treeline, and Sif makes a rumbling noise of recognition as he spots you spying from way up high.

“_______,” Alvina says, not sounding quite as surprised as she should be. “You linger where you ought not, and listen where I’ve asked you not to.”

“You’re talking about _me!_ ” you counter. “I find where I linger suits me just fine!”

Alvina sighs, the weary sigh of an old cat dealing yet again with her fearless and stubborn human daughter. “Then drop down here and join us openly, my curious child.”

You swing down off the branch at once, landing a bit painfully from such a height in a cat-like posture, though you refuse to show how it rattles your bones. You right yourself and direct a heated look up at Artorias’ hidden face. “I’m coming with you,” you tell him again, just in case he didn’t hear you the first time. “If my past is shrouded because of what happened to me in those dungeons, then it’s my right to discover why that is. And should those reasons evade me, I can still endeavor to help you, besides.” You stand strong, and quickly add in before he can object, “I _will_ help you in this task, Knight Artorias.”

“You’ll get in my way,” he counters down at you, and you fold your arms in a show of defiance that rivals his own.

“I will follow you to those dungeons no matter what your decision,” you assure him. “So you might as well allow my presence openly, lest I be forced to trail after you in the trees as I have done now, and will do so again.”

His lips tighten into a fine line, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Little cat–”

“_______,” you counter, planting your feet more firmly against the ground.

His lips press thinner still. “I will not have you harmed.”

“Then protect me well,” you argue right back, adding with a shrug, “though I hardly need it. I can protect myself perfectly well on my own.”

A low hum of discontent wavers from his flexing jaw, but he seems to at least be wise enough not to give his protests further voice, for to argue with someone as stubborn as you is truly a pointless endeavor. 

“Fine,” he relents at last, and you meet his scowl with a small, satisfied smile. 

“I think together we might make a great team, do you not agree?” you venture as your smile grows, not to be dismayed by his souring mood. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep you as safe from harm as I’m able.”

It looks like he tries _not_ to smile at that, and the muscles lining his jaw ripple again. “The day I require protection from a human will be a sad one indeed,” he grumbles at last.

Your smile pretends he bestowed you a compliment, though truthfully you simply hope to irk him a bit for offending you. “And hopefully on such a sad day, I’ll be there to protect you, as you say. Well, now that this matter is settled, Artorias, my Lord knight _,_ when shall we depart?”

“I see no reason to tarry,” he says, looking to Alvina for her advice. “We could reach the Township of Oolacile by nightfall should we leave at once, is this not correct?”

“You could indeed, if your pace is quick,” Alvina agrees. “Perhaps you might even have time to purchase a disguise for our little cat here, so she doesn’t look like such a forest creature, or attract the unwanted attention of anyone who might pause to recognize her.”

Your little victorious smile wavers, and you’re left frowning at Alvina on her perch, instead - now _she’s_ calling you little cat? “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” you question, tugging at your dirty, ripped dress. 

“You’d draw too much attention to us in that garb,” Artorias puts forth, his gaze roaming over you. “If you can truly confuse what you wear as garb… though surely at one point it must have at least resembled something akin to clothing.”

“And you wouldn’t draw attention to us in your peacocks armor?” you snap back, your eyes trailing over his steel-plated visage. “Might I also point out you're nine feet tall? You’ll hardly go unnoticed.”

“Of course I’ll attract notice,” he counters. “I am a Lord. And when the eyes of humans follow me, I would like to avoid explaining why I’m accompanied by a forest creature.” A small smile finds him despite his reluctance to bring you along with him. “Alvina is right. I’ll find you something more appropriate wherever we lodge, and the next morning we will approach the dungeons. They cannot disallow someone of my status entry, and once inside, we can hopefully slip about as we wish without notice. And if not, well…” his grip adjusts itself on the handle of the greatsword slung across one shoulder. “We will find a way to discover the purpose of their shrouded designs, as uneventfully as possible, but we will do so all the same.”

You’re not happy about being forced into dressing up like some kind of… _human_ , and some dainty human _maiden_ at that, but Artorias is not happy about bringing you along in the first place. You suppose the both of you can compromise in these regards. “Fine,” you concede. “You may dress me in whatever you like, so long as we enter the dungeons together.”

“You have my word,” Artorias smiles, his mood much improved, for whatever reason. He bows to Alvina then. “I will bring your daughter back to you unharmed, and with whatever knowledge we gain about what lingers in the depths of Oolacile’s dungeons.”

Alvina bows back to him. “Thank you, Lord Artorias. Be safe and swift in your travels.”

Artorias turns to leave, and Sif makes to follow, but you stay behind a moment, so that you might approach Alvina with a softened gaze. 

She smiles, like she knows what you’re thinking. “Thank you for your willingness to aid in this task, my child,” she purrs, and you rush forth to hug her, burying your face in her gray, tabby fur. “Be cautious amongst those of your kind, for their ilk is oft unkind.”

“They’re not my kind,” you protest, and Alvina gently laughs, the sound like a rumbling purr. 

“Go, young one,” she says. “Listen well to Lord Artorias, and return to me unharmed.”

You nod once, assurance that you will, and then dart off after Artorias before your sudden sentiment can implore you otherwise.

Artorias is waiting for you outside the grove of trees, his shield lowered in one hand and his greatsword balanced in the other, the length of it still resting casually over one shoulder, as it always seems to be. Surely his shoulder must ache to hold such a heavy thing like that at all times. 

He turns to look down at you when Sif’s head bobs, and his tail sways a bit in greeting. “I traveled through much of the night and early morning to reach this place as swiftly as I did,” he tells you, his hidden gaze seeming to linger on your legs, so small in comparison to his own. “We must make haste, for Lord Gwyn has only allowed me to attend to this personal task a short while. And though I could perhaps convince him of a need to remain here longer, to do so would require I return to Anor Londo, and that in itself is something time will not allow, if Alvina’s suspicions are indeed as treacherous as she imagines them to be.”

“Do you have a point?” you wonder aloud, suspecting he means to ask you something.

“Indeed I do, you impatient creature,” he returns. “I mean to ask if you can keep up with Sif and I, or must I carry you?”

“Carry me?!” you repeat with disdain, your eyebrows hiking upward at the very notion. A defiant huff escapes you. “I can manage on my own, and you needn’t slow your pace in the slightest to accommodate a single step!”

“As you say,” he mutters, turning at once to head back into the woods from whence he came, with you hurrying along after him. 

The three of you begin your journey through the thick and shrouded woods in a relative silence, none of you bothered by the quiet, wrapped as you are in your own reveries and thoughts. Sif runs off ahead of you and Artorias for the most part, scouting the area for scents, and oftentimes his shape is lost to the trees and underbrush entirely as he wanders about at his will.

The further you travel, the more out of breath you become, forced into taking three paces for every one of the tall knight’s beside you. “Where did you meet a wolf such as he?” you wonder after a time, between slightly puffing breaths, catching sight of Sif before he disappears into the trees again. The beast is apparently hot on the trail of something he’d like to track down and devour. “He seems… young at heart, and yet he’s already larger than any wolf I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s but a pup,” Artorias confirms, stepping over a felled log that you quickly strife to scamper over as well. “And will likely grow large enough for someone like you to ride upon.” He glances down at you briefly, before returning his attention to the path ahead. “I met him in a cold and painted world, and even as a babe whose height would barely brush your knee, he had a brave heart, and saved me from losing my head.”

“He saved you?” 

“As I would him,” Artorias says, his words determined, and yet their strength is softened by his fondness for the wolf. “I would lay down my life should his safety require it.”

You can tell that he means it, and you feel a warmth of admiration bloom and blossom in your chest, for you feel the very same about Alvina and your family of cats. Perhaps you and this Lord have more in common than you previously cared to realize.

He seems to know this, and glances down at you again. “You feel the same about your companions. I saw it in your eyes, when I held you to that tree. You were ready to die for them.”

You don’t respond right away, and for a moment you simply hurry after him in silence. “We are brave fools, then, the both of us.”

He chuckles a bit. “To be brave is oft to be a fool. But I will gladly hold to such foolishness, should it bring me the safety of those I care about.”

By the time Sif at last returns to your party, the shadows of the trees have begun tilting past noon, and he comes dragging the body of a stag alongside him by one of the beast’s legs.

Artorias pats Sif’s head, even as he shakes his own to decline the apparent gesture. “We haven’t time to make a fire, I fear. I thank you, my friend, but this meal is all yours.”

You’re close to out of breath after keeping up with Artorias’ relentless pace half the day, and at the mention of food your stomach rumbles so loudly that both Artorias and Sif to turn and look back at you. You grace them both with a sheepish sort of smile, rubbing the back of your neck while venturing slowly, “Surely we have time to build a _small_ fire…”

“Absolutely not,” Artorias puts out at once. “You’ll have plenty to eat once we reach lodging at Oolacile. In the meantime, why don’t you let me carry you, for you’re burning far too much energy trying to keep my pace.”

“ _Trying_?” you question, a full-on pout pulling at your lips as you fume up at him. “I’ve kept your pace well enough, I’d thank you to notice!”

“Indeed you have,” Artorias admits, coming toward you. “And yet I still wish to hasten our journey all the more, and I haven’t the time to indulge your scruples and defiance.” 

He rests his shield against the ground in his path toward you, and when you realize he means to scoop you up into his arms you at once try to flee him, but he grabs hold of you before you manage it. “Let me go at once!” you shout as he picks you up with ease, slinging you over the shoulder opposite his resting sword.

“Stay put!” he demands as you attempt to slip off of him. “I heard Alvina’s counsel to you - you must listen to me, and though you lack respect for my status as Lord you will heed my words now!”

You’ve already slipped halfway off his shoulder, but you hesitate at the weight of his words, and he’s soon lifting you back up to his shoulder, propping you up to sit with your legs around the back of his neck, like you’re some sort of child carried upon their father’s shoulders. The plumage of his helmet whips across your face as you slip into place there, and you sputter, swatting it away as if it were an aggravating insect. “Fine!” you relent, swatting at the tendrils of stiff hair again as they tickle your cheeks. “But remove your helm, at least! I will hold it for you!”

He grumbles like he has no intention of doing so, but concedes nonetheless. The two of you are nothing but arguments and compromises, it seems. “Very well,” he slowly mutters, pushing back his blue hood and lifting off his helm, holding it up for you to take. You hug it to one side before leaning a bit forward on his head, even resting one forearm across his mess of hair.

He twists around to look up at you. “My head is not an armrest for which to leisure yourself.”

“And yet you’ve forced me up here, and I insist on making myself comfortable.”

His pale eyes narrow at you, and you smile in return, your fingers curling into the locks of his straight, black hair. The muscles in his neck tense when you do, and his glower falters a bit. 

“We haven’t time to waste,” you tell him, your fingers trailing along his scalp in loose patterns. You nearly laugh when you feel a series of chills run through him, and he quickly looks away from you. “You did mean to quicken our pace, did you not?”

“You are nothing but trouble,” he mutters, walking back to where he dropped his shield. He leans down to scoop it up, his movements unaffected by your additional weight upon him, and then he heads off again, his paces indeed more swift, and carrying you both with a speed you might have run yourself ragged in the wake of were you left to trail along behind them.

“I thought I was also distracting,” you point out casually, leaning down enough to rest your chin upon his head, your fingertips continuing to tease through his hair.

You feel his huff of impatience vibrate through him. “That too. And you will perhaps pay for both of these offenses once we reach Oolacile.”

A series of nonplussed blinks finds you, and your playful fingers tighten a bit at his roots. “Pay? Pay how?”

He seems amused by the alarm his words have inspired, and he rumbles with low laughter. “Perhaps I’ll find you the frilliest dress in all of Oolacile to be your disguise, for you did promise to wear whatever I bring you.”

You gasp at the very prospect. “You will do no such thing!”

“I believe I just might,” he says. “And if you don’t like it, you’ll of course have my permission to rid yourself of such a gown entirely; though to do so would leave you without a single thing to wear afterward, and you’d remain very much at the mercy of my resulting fascination of that fact.”

You sputter helplessly a few times in an attempt to snap back at him with something witty, all in a front not to show how flustered his words actually make you. Your scandalized silence is indication enough, however, and his laughter fills its place. “I suppose I really must find you something most dreadful, so you are forced to tear whatever it is off of you at once.”

You’re very glad he cannot see how brightly your cheeks burn, for your fear you must look like an actual red and ripened apple. “I think we should continue our journey in contemplative silence!” you admonish, to which he hums with low laughter again.

“If you insist, my lady,” he smiles, falling faithfully quiet at your behest, though his features remain warmed by his unwavering amusement.

Your flustered huff ruffles his hair as you settle in more comfortably atop his head, and you do your best not to think about how much you might enjoy Knight Artorias to behold your nakedness with more than just the fascination of his gaze. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeaaahhhhhh I pulled a sneak on you - this is going to have multiple parts because my word counts are relentless, oooooooopppspssss ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ adventure and romance awaits you and Artorias in the next chapter of this tale
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> The Pursuer  
> Abyss Watchers (all of them)  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Greirat  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Solaire of Astora
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	10. Knight Artorias pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, Artorias, and Sif enter the Township of Oolacile, where not all things are as they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore any loose drywall or splatters of paint I may have missed in proofreading. Just hum loudly and avert your gaze

♡The future of Oolacile lies in your hands, starring…. Artorias the Wolf♡

* * *

You’re not _completely_ hopeless in the presence of other humans. You know enough about them, though you’ve never actually _approached_ any of them before. But you’ve spied enough from how close you’ve dared to get to the outskirts of Oolacile, plenty of times, so you really shouldn’t be quite as uncomfortable as you are at being so close to all those humans now, minutes away from wandering into that dreaded sorcerer’s city.

Yet some instinct in you is still screaming at you to remain hidden, despite already having been seen - are currently _being_ seen - by one of the kingdom’s stone guardians, the ones that wander the woods outside the city. You’re looking directly into its rock-carved face, in fact, right where its eyes would be, if the thing even had eyes, and you’re able to meet its gaze directly from your height settled atop Artorias’ shoulders. And while your insides continue screaming their protests, it’s far too late to heed them. That stone beast, puppeteered by the sorceries of Oolacile, already knows you’re here, and therefore its enchanters already know you’re here, too.

The golem meets your gaze a moment longer, before lumbering off deeper into the woods, its heavy footfalls shaking the earth and echoing about the trees.

You turn back to watch it plod off, its body swaying with a giant’s slowness, and don’t notice that Artorias has been watching you for who knows how long until you turn back with a start. He smiles at your little twitch of surprise. “It’s not too late, you know,” he says, his eyes flickering over your own. “You don’t need to come with us into the city. You can go back home, to Alvina. I trust you can see yourself there well enough on your own, and Sif and I can continue in our task without you.” When you don’t say anything, he adds, “There’s no dishonor in it. Truly.”

Your muted frown winds tighter at the very notion of abandoning this quest the three of you have set out on. Though, you do have to admit… the idea is not without temptation.

It’s also not at all an actual possibility.

“Are you so eager to be rid of me?” you mutter at length, your expression of calm kept carefully in place as you meet his gaze. “Or do you simply believe I’m too _scared_ to continue?”

He studies you, silent as he does, though the corners of his lips slowly quirk in gentle amusement. “It’s impossible for one to be brave without also knowing fear. And I know you are brave, little cat.” His barely-a-smile edges slightly. “You might also have forgotten I’m currently carrying you, and can feel your thighs squeezing to my neck like a frightened babe clutching to its mother even now, all at the sight of a single roaming golem.”

You blink a few times, blushing as you do, and quickly force the nervous tension from your apparently clinging legs. “Well… how else am I to remain in place up here? I meant only not to slip from your ridiculous height,” you rush in defense.

“Of course,” the knight relents, though his playful grin does not. “Not that I mind in either case. I find I’m rather taken with being between your clinging thighs.”

Any shades of pink you’ve managed to fight from your face return to it in full force, and you sputter a few times before simply grabbing his blue hood in both hands and stuffing it over his smirking face.

His laughter is muffled by the fabric of it. “Is that really necessary?” his muffling wishes to know, and he turns forward once more so that his hood might rest normally atop his head, vieling his features again from the view of others.

“It would appear so,” you muse, a smile playing your lips now that he’s unable to see it.

Though the shape of it falters as you eye the kingdom creeping into view in the distance. The thickness of the trees has dwindled at this point in your journey, and the pines that once congregated as friends are now peppered and cleared apart, welcoming in expanses of meadow between them. The stone towers of Oolacile can be seen, nestled against the cliffside in the distance. The ravines the city embraces delve so deeply downward one can hardly see their depths, and the kingdom’s coliseums and towers rise in elegance around their every bend and curve. And set behind Oolacile’s architectural majesties and striking outline, even more cliffs rise, ones taller than the city's tallest towers, their jagged teeth seeming to scrape the sky itself.

This is not a kingdom afraid of heights, it would seem; to be swallowed up by their shadows, or rooted high above their bottomless pits.

Artorias’ gaze seems to be following your own. “It’s time you walk behind me, I think, little one,” he says, crouching as he does. His shield rests in the grass as he helps ease you off his shoulders, and he takes his helm from you before righting himself to his full height beside you again. You cannot see his eyes as you stare up at him, but his tone has lost all its previous mirth. “Before we go any further, I must tell you… It’s strange enough that a Lord travels with a forest girl, and I fear we must converse as little as possible once inside the city, at least until that detail is rectified by a proper disguise for yourself. I’m hopeful my presence alone is enough to satisfy gossip, and that if we aren’t seen or heard speaking to one another, you need not be noticed alongside me at all.”

You can’t help but scowl at that, even though his words aren't without logic. “Am I too lowly to be seen with you, Lord Artorias?”

“Yes,” he makes no attempt to soften the bluntness of it, and you wince a bit despite yourself. “I mean not to offend you, little cat. And clearly I have no qualms in keeping your company. But in the eyes of Oolacile’s populace... we will no doubt be the subject of many whispers the second we’re spotted together. So…” he hesitates, like he isn’t exactly sure how best to approach whatever it is he means to suggest next. “If you would… please, just… stay behind me, and say little. In fact, avoid speaking at all. I will speak for the both of us.”

He seems to want you as a silent, complacent pet. “Perhaps you’d like to simply have me gagged,” you suggest with bitterness. “Lest I embarrass you by uttering a single syllable.”

“I would suggest you stop arguing with me,” he counters instead, his tone slowly losing patience. “Though I fear you can hardly manage such a thing. But for a human girl to argue with a Lord in the presence of others would be a curious thing indeed, were I not to immediately reprimand your lack of respect afterward.”

“You mean to gag me and to _reprimand_ me as well?” you repeat in growing disbelief, your brows knitting as your scowl overtakes you.

“I’d like to avoid it,” he assures, and he fixes his helm in place atop his head, the tail of its plumage lingering behind him. “So keep yourself in check, little one. Don’t say a word, and wander not far from where I lead.” And though you can’t see his face, you suspect he’s rolling his eyes at how you continue to glower up at him. “You know, you’re lucky I’m as lenient with the sharpness of your tongue as I am. If Ornstein or one of my other fellow knights were here in my place, for instance, you’d have been gagged long ago. Likely from the very instance you first opened that sharpened mouth of yours.”

You fold your arms in a show of unwavering defiance. “Is that so? Well, your compatriots sound lovely.”

Artorias rumbles in brief laughter, seemingly despite himself, for he does appear like he’s attempting to be serious. “You have much to relearn about the world,” he tells you. “Though perhaps you were always a willful and defiant creature, even with your memory intact.” A slow smile finds him at the thought, despite his previous warnings that you should act in exactly the opposite manner to what has him smiling now. “I wonder what kind of trouble got you locked away in an Oolacile dungeon to begin with.”

“It was likely for slapping a Lord,” you suggest with a hinted brow.

“I had little idea you encouraged such foulness as foreplay,” he grins, and you barely convince yourself not to slap him right then and there. He laughs like he knows this. “Slap me all you like in our private moments,” he says, his voice teasing even as his smile fades away. “But don’t even _think_ to act in such a way in public.”

He peers down at you for a long moment in pointed silence, like he’s willing his words to force you into obedience, though eventually he sighs. “And though I fear you’ve hardly taken a word I’ve said to heart, I have no more time to convince you of the folly in disobeying me.” He turns again toward the city. “You may just learn the hard way. But I will attempt to spare you from your own stubbornness one last time; stay close at heel, and don’t say a word.”

And though you roll your eyes again, you make no attempts to actually defy him, hurrying after his lengthy paces as the group of you start off again. You’d like to avoid being gagged or ‘reprimanded’ should you fail to bite back your sharpened tongue in his Lordly presence, after all, and you also find his shadow the perfect place to hopefully remain unnoticed once inside the township.

A wide bridge spans the chasms between forest and city, trailed on both ends by cobblestone pathways that lead in and out of the kingdom. The sounds of carts and carriages meet you first; of hooves clipping across stone, of the conversation and jeers and laughter of the masses. And then you see the grand, arched entryway leading into Oolacile, and that rather lonely road leading toward it, though there are a few travelers and farmers going about their business there, wandering to and fro across the bridge.

The second a small forest girl, a towering, fully armored Lord, and a giant wolf step foot upon the pathway, all eyes are swift to follow. “Remember what I said,” Artorias mutters so quietly you almost don’t hear him, and then he heads off toward the opened city gates. You glance nervously between the few people who have paused to stare at you, before hurrying off after Artorias, close at his heels indeed.

A large city square greets the three of you inside the city walls, lined by shops and traveling merchants, a vine-sheathed gazebo at its center where yet more traders linger and set about their displays of wares. The chaos and colors of the crowds leaves you stunned for a moment, your steps unmoving, for you’ve never experienced anything quite like it. There are a million little things to look at, all of them vying for your attention. But Artorias leaves little time to study the people and oddities surrounding you, leading your path through the bustling crowds without stopping to meet any of the many rising, awe-struck gazes that pass him.

Those going about their business forget any such business they were previously attending to, jaws dropping, eyes going wide. And though Artorias appears to pay them no mind, you can’t help but take in their many mystified expressions, frozen in stupefaction and awe to see a towering Lord and his six-foot sword suddenly appear amongst them to make his way through the square.

“L-Lord Artorias,” you hear mumbled by a multitude. Apparently they know him. Perhaps you are the only human alive unfamiliar with the Lords and Gods of this land.

“What is a Lord doing here?”

“Look at his sword! _Is_ that a sword!”

“Of course it’s a sword, you dolt! Now shut up before he hears you!”

“He’s nearly a giant!”

“Is that a _wolf_ behind him? I thought that only a rumor.”

You don’t hear what they say about you, perhaps for the best, for those who spot you after first sighting Artorias and his giant wolf mostly fall into silent confusion, should they really even notice you at all. A few wrinkled noses and hushed and hurried whispers is all you’re able to make out as you quicken your pace behind Artorias, lest you lose sight of him brushing past the crowds in haste. Perhaps he’s nearly as uncomfortable wading through their number as you are.

Someone in a white robe, their every feature hidden, perks their hooded head up at the sight of you. They’re looking right at you, clearly - you can’t see their face, but it's obvious that they’ve noticed you, the forest girl in Artorias’ shadow. And then they turn away almost at once, pushing through the crowds as they retreat, quickly lost from view. For some reason their reaction and swift departure unnerves you, and your footsteps hesitate a moment as the whispers following Artorias wash over you. But Sif distracts you from seeking this unnerving stranger out, his wet nose bumping into the small of your back to nudge you forward. With a blink of surprise back at him, you force yourself to hurry off after Artorias again.

The attentions of the crowds, their incessant gossip and their half-overcome musings, continue to follow your party as Artorias leads you further into the city, and thankfully as he does the bustle of the commoners gradually begins to disperse, for it would seem you are headed toward the Oolacile palace, where such crowds and common folk are not welcomed.

No, it would not _seem_ you are headed there, you are _absolutely_ headed there, and the very prospect fills you with newfound alarm.

You’re nearly by yourselves again when the three of you reach the expansive stone steps leading up to the kingdom’s stone and gold fortress, with only a few nobles and guardsmen passing you by, and it is here that you break Artorias’ order not to say a word in following him, and you grab his hand to pull him back a step as you do.

“Where are we going?!” you hiss before he can object to you speaking to him. “We must have passed by several lodgings already, surely! And half the city seems to have seen us by now! Should we not hide away somewhere before anyone else knows we’re here?!”

He doesn’t answer right away, and he slips his hand from yours immediately. Turning away from you, his hooded gaze trails behind a group of passing sorcerers, their number shrouded in ivory robes, as it would seem their steps have begun to linger in order to spy in on what the two of you could possibly be up to upon the palace steps. Though as Artorias proceeds to stare them down, they all are quick to bow in a decided panic and scurry away again.

“Though the thought of hiding away with you somewhere is a tempting one,” Artorias murmurs, barely risking a glance at you. “I’d enjoy doing so someplace with a ceiling that accommodates my height all the more.”

You can hardly believe what you’re hearing. “You’d risk exposure because you’re worried about hitting your head on a few doorways?!”

“I jest,” he breathes, moving you both to the side a bit, so that his form hides you away from the entrance of the castle behind him. He looks down at you openly then. “I don’t doubt word of our arrival has already reached the King’s ears. Likely from the moment the stone guardians saw us in the woods, and in any case, surely by now he knows of our presence here. I’m not sure where exactly you expected us to hide, but there was never a shred of hope in avoiding such notice, especially since we mean to traverse the kingdom and its dungeons openly upon the morrow.” His attention flitters away from you for a moment as he makes sure no new ears are listening in. “It would be an insult for one representing Lord Gwyn not to formally announce their arrival to the city, and even more offensive were they to steal away and seek refuge in some commoner’s hollow.”

His words sink realization into you, and though you try to keep your voice lowered, you find you’re nearly shouting when you blurt out, “You mean to have us stay in the _castle_?!”

“Hush,” he reprimands at once, stealing another brief look around the stairway. “We have little choice in the matter. Now come along, and retake an oath of silence if you would. I will attempt to hide you away somewhere before meeting with the King.” His eyes seem to wander over your wild appearance. “Somewhere with a bath, preferably.”

You ignore the insult, too caught up on the prospect of staying with Oolacile’s royalty, and of Artorias’ decision to meet with them straight away. “You would tell them of our plans?!”

“Absolutely not,” Artorias whispers in assurance. “But I must meet with them nonetheless; it is expected of me, and I will spin a web of lies as to what brings us here to throw them off our trail. I won’t have them interfering in our dealings with the dungeons.”

A few finely dressed nobles pass down the steps by you and Artorias’ hushed meeting, and they sneak a few sideways looks at the two of you as they wander by. Artorias turns away from you upon receiving the weight of their curious gazes, and without another word, the knight leads both you and Sif up the remaining stairs toward the palace.

The courtyard above it is lined by many columns and tufts of decorative flowers. “M-my Lord Artorias,” an older man, with a gut like a melon and a curling mustache, bumbles to greet you as your party nears the entrance of the palace unescorted. He is the first to formally address you, oddly enough. In fact, you’d begun to wonder if the three of you might simply wander straight into the King’s chambers without a single person blocking your path. None of the guards have made to stop you; every one of them lining the courtyard has taken an apprehensive step back upon sighting Artorais’ approach. Hopefully it was recognition and respect that stayed their blades, otherwise they are truly hopeless as guardians of this palace.

The plump man is the first to actually block Artorias’ passage into the fortress, and he skids to a halt before the group of you as he does. He’s finely dressed, with silly puffed sleeves that split like the tops of baked bread. His cheeks are ruddy and he’s obviously out of breath from having rushed to greet the three of you, and his party of cloaked mages staggers to keep up behind him. “P-please,” he pants, gasping to reclaim his breath. “Please forgive his majesty for… for not…” he stops for a moment, steadying his hefty weight upon his knees as he chokes back some much needed air. After a long and breathy pause, he rights himself once more. “Please forgive his majesty, my Lord Artorias,” he tries again. “For not receiving you with a Lord’s welcome the moment you first entered the city gates. We missed word of your arrival, and–”

“I sent no word,” Artorias cuts him off, and the man prattles into flustered silence. “We’ve found ourselves passing through Oolacile on our way back to Anor Londo in happenstance, and I hope his majesty will see fit to forgive such an unannounced visit.”

“N-no! Not at all! I mean, that is to say,” the chubby man sputters, trying to collect himself in this turning tide of events. “His majesty most certainly doesn’t mind your presence in his kingdom, announced or otherwise, my Lord - please, if you would, he requests an audience with–”

“Please show me to my quarters,” Artorias interrupts him once again. “I wish to see my companions there myself before exchanging any words with the King.”

The man balks in uncertainty, like he hadn’t expected this, though he presumably hadn’t expected anything about what he is currently being forced to deal with. But it's not as if he can object to a request from a knight of Gwyn. “Right… I mean, of course,” he bumbles, offering a clumsy bow to the towering Lord. “Of course, you must be weary from your travels, my Lord. I will show you to your chambers at once.”

“You will do no such thing,” a voice like smooth velvet interjects, and the group of you turns toward the sound of approaching footsteps. It would seem the poor, chubby counselman to the King cannot end a single sentence without first being interrupted by someone.

A man fitted in slender, pristine silver armor makes his way toward you from some side garden of the palace, a band of white-clad sorcerers trailing a formation in his wake. The man appears to be some kind of spellsword, with both the curved blade and the platemail of a knight, as well as the billowing, snowy cloak of his fellow sorcerers hanging behind him. Its length hugs to his lithe shoulders, spilling like a stream of ice to the ground behind him.

And he truly is a man of ice, born and sculpted in ivory and cold. His hair is a pool of silver curls, thick like the mane of a majestic and magical beast, and his eyes are pale as snow. He’s beautiful, even when likened to the softness of a woman, he is lovely beyond compare.

“I believe I can take things from here, my dear Earl Farnese,” the man says, his voice as graceful as his steps. He spares not a single look for the chubby Earl as he comes up beside him. His pale eyes are on Artorias, and he offers a slight, cordial smile in his bow of greeting, one hand resting casually on the golden hilt of his curved sword.

Earl Farnese blathers a bit in objection. “B-but Archmage, surely–”

“I said,” the silver man repeats, with a brief glance at the pudgy man beside him. His expression has not changed, but the Earl still shrinks beneath it. “That will be all.”

Earl Farnese’s sausage-like fingers twitch a bit at his sides as he lingers a moment more, uncertain in abandoning his task of welcoming a Lord. But at last he relents. “Very well,” he huffs before waddling off. You hear him grumbling something under his breath as he does.

The pale man looks back to Artorias. “I would be honored to show you to your chambers, my Lord Artorias, but I would have the pleasure of meeting you first. I am Griffith, my Lord; Archmage of the golden sorcerers and member of the King’s counsel.” His eyes travel along the length of Artorias’ blade, slung as always across one tall shoulder, its sharpened edges glistening in the sun’s setting light. “I have heard many tales of your unrivaled skill with a greatsword, Lord Artorias, though I must admit, to see such a blade in person is quite another thing entirely…” There’s an air of appreciation in his voice, though his expression remains a careful, porcelain mask. “The size of it alone is astounding.”

Artorias shifts his grip upon its hilt. “Perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself to it, as well, before allowing my party and I rest from our travels?”

Griffith’s slight smile wavers for only a moment; a fracture to his careful mask, one easily enough sealed back up again. “Forgive me, Lord Artorias. But I’d be remiss not to make an introduction to one of Lord Gwyn’s four.”

His eyes travel to Sif with a hint of interest, and then to you, and you find you really wish they hadn’t. Something about his eyes engulfs you in coldness and cruelty, something that reaches through his pale gaze to grab hold of you and rip the very air from your lungs. You find yourself cowering closer to Sif’s side under his gaze, despite his soft and rapt smile.

“What curious company you keep, my Lord,” Griffith muses, something stirring past his eyes as he watches you. “You travel with a helpless, flightless bird, it would seem. And what is the bird's name, I wonder?”

You don’t respond, though you’re unable to tear your gaze away from his. He studies you with a growing smile for as long as it takes Artorias to step between the two of you.

“My subtleties seem lost on you, Archmage,” he says. “So perhaps I will try bluntness, instead. You will stop addressing those in my party, and escort us to whatever chambers your King sees fit to accommodate us in. And you will do all this without giving me reason to repeat myself.”

Griffith’s silver eyes snap up to the Lord’s hidden face, his smile carefully in place despite the knight’s curt tone. “Of course,” he relents without a moment's pause. “You aren’t keen on sharing your bird. I understand this entirely.” He steals one last look at you, one corner of his lips edging in a subtle smirk. And then he turns to lead the three of you into the castle at Artorias’ behest. “If you’ll follow me, my Lord, I will show you and your party to your chambers, and will more than happily accompany you to the throne of the king afterward.”

You watch his snowy, billowing cloak as he wanders into the palace, his group of sorcerers and Artorias not far behind. That man… he seems familiar in the worst of ways, though it makes not an ounce of sense. And yet the very sound of his silken voice suffocates you despite this. As the others follow him into the castle, you stay behind, rooted by an unknown fear that trembles in some dark, lost place of your mind. It’s not until Sif bumps you with his nose again that you realize you aren’t moving, at which point you force yourself to hurry after the group of them.

The great hall Griffith leads you through is massive; stacked stories high and lined with many windows, all of them pouring in the last of the sun’s fading light. Many statues peek from the crevices in the walls as you pass by them, ones you assume to replicate sorcerers, Lords, and Gods. One of them has a spindled, golden star upon its effeminate brow, and the glisten of it catches your attention for a moment as you hurry by.

“His majesty would have you stay in one of his finest rooms, of course,” Griffith murmurs conversationally as he leads the group of you through a multitude of hallways, until he at last presents you at the door of where you’re to be staying. “I believe you’ll find it to your liking, Lord Artorias.” His pale eyes seek out the hidden features of Artorias’ face looming high above him. “And now that you’ve seen your party safely here, would you like to accompany me straight away to the throne room, or would you perhaps prefer to tuck in your beggar girl and your mongrel, first?”

It seems to take Artorias a moment to convince himself not to strike the growing smirk off Griffith’s face with the front end of his shield. “The King is expecting me,” he mutters at last, turning to fully face the man, staring him down like one would an insect. “So lead our way.”

Griffith offers a gentle bow, his eyes never leaving the Lord as he does. “Of course, my Lord.”

Artorias glances down at you, and the silence between you both is a thick and heavy thing. It’s not until his attention trails instead to Sif that he speaks. “Remain by her side at all times,” he instructs, and Sif growls his congruence.

The Archmage’s pale eyes find you, and you flinch beneath their icy bite. “I’ll have servants sent at once to tend to your companions.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I insist.”

Artorias’ hand twists against the hilt of his greatsword. “So be it. And should I find their services in any way to my disliking, my complaints will be made to you personally by the weight of my blade.”

Something flashes in Griffith’s silver eyes, and he lightly scoffs. “Worry not, Lord Artorias. Those who serve me are of the highest caliber. Not a murmur of complaint will leave your lips in their regard, nor be followed by your blade.” He meets your gaze again for the briefest of moments. “I’m sure you’ll be satisfied in how they transform your faithfully silent bird into a maiden. Now come along, we mustn't keep his majesty waiting.”

He turns to lead Artorias away, and you and Sif linger at the chamber doorway to watch the group of them go. You can’t stem the nerves that wriggle about in the pit of your stomach upon being left in the belly of this castle without your knightley companion by your side. But you have Sif, at least, and the wolf’s company is well received.

“Well,” you muster, meeting Sif’s glowing, amber eyes beside you. “Shall we?”

He yips low in his throat, and that seems as much a confirmation as any. So you smile, and push open the heavy doors, leading your way inside the chamber beyond it, though Sif brushes past you as he canters along. His claws scuff across the stone floors as he sniffs along different sections of the room, as if checking to make sure it’s safe, and that the two of you are truly alone there.

The room has a triadic set of large windows, and a canopy bed fit for a Lord, with rippling, forest green tufts of fabric flowing off of it. An illustrious hearth carves into the wall in the space between you and the bed, complete with white, wooden furniture on which to sit and watch the flames should one so desire, the length of its seat draped in gray and brown furs. You sit down upon it, only to stand right back up again, much too agitated to remain in one place for long. Wandering about the room, followed closely by Sif and his equally inquisitive nose, together you peek through multiple drawers and chests surrounding the room, eventually slipping into the bath chamber attached at the room’s far end in your continued snooping.

Sif looks back toward the entryway of the bedchamber, his ears attentive and twitching, though when the abrupt knocking he must have anticipated clatters through the room you still clutch to your heart in an attempt not to suffer a startled heart attack. You scamper out of the bathing room, barely collecting yourself in time to see two female servants bustle in from the hallway. “My lady,” they greet in unison, giving you a short bow, before their twin gazes catch on Sif standing tall beside you. The two of them shift with a bit of unease at the sight of such a beast.

You pat the wolf’s gray head, repeating something Artorias once told you. “He will not harm you,” you assure, though the maids seem hardly convinced.

“I… I will draw you a bath at once, my lady,” one maid announces, heading at once to brush past you and into the bathing room. “It will be swiftly prepared, for I’ve several spells to aid in the task.”

“And I will fetch something more comfortable for both you and Lord Artorias to wear,” the other states before slipping off in her duty.

You and Sif exchange looks, and you’re almost certain he’s just as disgruntled as you are into being forced to deal with the preening of the servants. And it indeed isn’t long at all before the servant drawing your bath comes back to collect you, ushering you along before you can even think to object. Sif follows along behind the two of you, curling up on the floor a safe distance from the lowered pool at the bath chamber's center.

“Archmage Griffith has asked that we have you bathed, primped, and dressed before Lord Artorias returns from his counsel with the King,” the servant barely wastes a moment in telling you, already stripping you of your sword belt, which she tosses rather carelessly aside before making quick work in peeling the clothes right off you.

And she’s apparently an expert in the craft, as you’re shortly clinging to your sudden nudity in bewildered embarrassment. “I - _excuse_ me, you will treat my weapons with respect! And - hey, _stop_ it! I’m perfectly capable of bathing myself!”

“Are you?” the servant questions, one skeptical brow lifting as she takes a good look at you. “I’d have never guessed it.”

“Hey!” you scowl again in protest, but she ignores you, pulling you forth and tossing you into the heated tub without a care. Its depths are filled and warmed through whatever mechanisms and golden sorceries she’d made use of, and her exasperation follows after the sight of you.

“You _will_ be clean by the time your Lord comes back here! I’m not about to lose my head because you can’t be bothered to take a bath!”

Her words are cut off as you fall into the water with a heavy splash, and the second your sputtering head arises from the surface the maid has her hands working some kind of soap into your hair. She’s insufferably persistent, you’ll give her that much.

“Hey,” you protest again, trying to slap her hands away as she scrubs and lathers and begins running a comb through your tangles before she’s even finished, and your continued objections do nothing to dissuade her. She is relentless in her task to brush and slather your wild hair with some kind of sweet smelling substance, though she’s not above a little small talk as she kneels down beside the tub.

“Is knight Artorias handsome under that hood of his?” she asks as she tortures you, ignoring your unwavering attempts to bat her hands away.

“Are you _really_ going to – _ow_!”

Her eyes take a far away look as she works through the snarls in your hair, and a wistful sigh escapes her at whatever she imagines the face of knight Artorias to look like. “He’s _tall_...”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you put forth dully.

“And I bet he’s _handsome_.”

Your hands sink under the water, your shoulders squaring off in defeat as you face forward and allow her to continue pulling painfully at your hair. You just hope she’s nearly finished already. “He’s not terrible to look at,” you grumble to admit at last.

She seems surprised by this. “You’ve seen him, then? His entire face?”

“I might have caught a glimpse or two,” you confess, your cheeks warming at the memory of just how intimate you’ve actually been with the knight _and_ his face.

“I wonder if he means to bed you,” the maid wonders aloud, before laughing at herself. “No, but of course he wouldn’t mean to take someone like you to bed with him. In fact I’m not entirely certain why he drags you along at all. He must have a pitying, gentle heart.” And before you can give voice to your rising annoyance, she dunks you under the water without warning to work the suds from your hair. You’re nearly choking as you claw your way back to the surface of the water, and you immediately twist around to splash a torrent of water her way.

“ _Ahh_!” she shrieks, pushing away from you.

You grin like a trouble-making fox. “You looked in need of a bit of a bath, yourself,” you put forth as casually as you can, and she glowers in response.

The other maid hurries into the bath chamber, a yellow dress encased in a nauseating amount of white lace draped over one arm, and you take one look at the thing before backing away to the opposite end of the tub, eyes going wide in alarm. “No,” you object at once, your head swiveling in protest. “What _is_ that thing?”

“It’s a dress, my lady - perhaps you’ve seen one before?”

“Surely that is kindling for the fire, and nothing more.”

“I assure you–”

“You cannot force me into wearing whatever that monstrosity is!”

The half-drenched maid exchanges an exasperated look with the other. “She’s an uncivilized barbarian, it would seem,” she mumbles.

“Uncivilized barbarian?!” you repeat, your voice rising.

“I’ll hold her down, and you slip the dress on her–”

“You’ll regret any such an attempt!” you shout, looking about the room in a panic for your swords, which have apparently been placed elsewhere when you weren’t paying attention. “Where are my weapons? Bring them to me at once!”

The maids make to pull you from the tub as you splash water at the both of them, desperate in your attempts not to be tucked away within that yellow, frilly prison they seek to strangle you in.

“Stop that, you beastly girl!”

“Sif? Sif save me!”

Sif opens one lazy eye at the spectacle you’re making, but doesn’t move an inch from his relaxed disposition at the doorway. Some guardian he is.

The now dripping maids manage to pull you from the tub and slip your thrashing body into the dress despite your every attempt to wriggle free of them, and by the end of it you’ve more or less given up in even _trying_ to stop them. They’re a formidable team, and after accepting defeat you’re left a fuming, glowering mess of frills and lace, standing there hunched in anger and decided ruin as they both wiggle with excitement over how ‘beautiful’ you look.

“She looks like a proper lady! I’d hardly recognize her!”

You look down at the yellow silk and bundles of lace clinging to every inch of you, before reaching down to grab the trailing hem of the monstrosity they call a dress. You tear into the fabric before either servant realizes what you’re doing, though they’re quick to slap your hands away from tearing the slit you’ve made any further than past your knee.

“What are you _doing_?!”

“I can hardly breathe in this thing!”

“Stop that at once you heathen!”

“Is everything alright in here?

You all twist around at once to see Artorias watching the chaos from the bath chamber’s doorway, his smile crooked with entertainment. Both maids immediately fall into respective bows at the sight of him.

“My Lord,” they both murmur, their gazes kept to the floor.

Artorias pays them no mind. His attention is very much on you, as is his broadening smile. “You look…” he begins, amusement drawing the length of his following pause.

You blink. “Horrid?” you finish for him, and he cant help the small laugh that escapes him.

He waves to the servants. “Go and find her something with less lace,” he demands, and you feel an immediate surge of gratitude toward him despite his continued laughter at your expense.

The maids exchange a quick look before bowing again and scurrying off, brushing past where he lingers in the doorway. When they’ve gone, he wanders toward you for a better look at their handiwork. “Well,” he says, looking you over. His thoughtful hum turns into more of a chuckle. “You at least _smell_ nice.”

“You’re far too amused by this,” you grumble, casting your gaze aside so he can’t witness your embarrassment. “I was _tortured_ into this thing!”

“You seem to have suffered through it well enough,” he says. “And I feel I hold just the right amount of amusement, sweet creature.”

“I’m not a creature!”

“No… perhaps you _were_ , but indeed you’re far from it now,” he agrees, much to your surprise. You glance up at him, and he smiles. “You look very much a lady. In fact, you’ve enough lace to rival Princess Dusk, herself.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea who Princess Dusk is, but she must have horrendous taste.”

“As do you, it would seem,” he smiles at your annoyance, before nodding toward the heated tub behind you. “You’re not the only one in need of a hot bath, little cat, so unless you mean to join me while I bathe, I’d suggest you wait by the hearth until I’m finished in here.” His smile grows wide when you blink up at him in shock at the very notion of joining him. “Surely you were dirty enough to warrant two baths.”

“I hope you drown!” you snarl before striding past him.

“Oh come now,” he objects, grinning as you push by. “It was only a suggestion.”

You ignore him as you storm away, and he calls after you, “Send in the servants when they’re finished tormenting you.”

That has your attention, more so than you’d care to admit in fact, and you spin around to stare back at him despite yourself. “Send them in for what purpose?” you wonder, your voice a carefully crafted version of not caring in the slightest. “Do you… wish to bathe with them?”

You can’t see his face from the distance you’ve created between yourselves, but you can hear the smile on his lips. “Would such a thing trouble you, my lady?”

“I…” Your head swivels. “No! Why would it?” you question with as much conviction as you can. You turn away from him, folding your arms as you do. “Bathe with whomever you like.”

His low laughter echoes about the bath chamber. “I mean only to obtain assistance in removing my armor,” he calls to you in assurance. “Though I will gladly take yours should you offer it.”

You glance back at him again, weighing your options. You’d like to make life difficult for the knight, or course, but… for whatever reason, you would also like to keep the sight of Artorias, unhooded and armorless, all to yourself. And so you start back toward him while muttering, “I will help you. I doubt those dreadful servants know how to properly unclasp armor, in any case.”

“If you say so,” he muses, his smile far more cunning than it has a right to be. He’s already slipping off his gauntlets and vambraces as you meet him by the bath, and he has to lower himself to sit on the floor just so you can reach the clasps you must undo in order to aid him. “Just untether the back, at the nape of my neck under the cloak, as well as beneath each pauldron. I can manage the rest.”

Reaching up on tipped toes, you endeavor to unfasten each strap holding his armor in place, and by the time you finish the servants have returned. Artorias and you both turn to see a simple, ruby-red gown they’ve brought with them, one free of lace, as well as a set of dark clothing for himself.

“Better,” Artorias allows, and the servants both appear to relax a bit in relief. He pushes himself to stand again before nodding in your direction. “Help the lady to change, and then your presence here is no longer required.”

The servants exchange a meaningful look. “But Archmage Griffith–”

“I care little for the objections of your master Griffith,” he cuts off at once. “And as your Lord, I must insist you do as I say.”

“Y-yes, Lord Artorias,” they both bow before scurrying away to obediently await you in the bedchamber.

You glance up at Artorias before following them, and a small smile finds its way past the tension that clings to him, an agitation brought on by the mere mention of Griffith’s name. Perhaps the two of them exchanged more heated words, ones thinly veiled in feigned hospitality, during their meeting in the throne room.

“I’ll join you presently, little cat,” he assures. “Or did you wish to join me as I bathe, after all?”

“Wh- I… no!” you stammer at once, hurrying away before any part of you can object.

Shutting the doorway to the bath on your way out, you lean heavily against it for a moment, a flush on your cheeks. You can't help but wonder what Artorias might do were you to simply turn back around and slip into the tub alongside him. Perhaps you’d like to find out.

The maids are busying themselves lighting a few sconces around the room and striking a fire in the hearth, but take note of your glowing face when they’re finished, and you start towards them in an effort to distract yourself from your own embarrassment. “Give me those clothes,” you say, one hand outstretched to receive them, though they seem reluctant to comply.

“But Lord Artorias said–”

“I know what he said,” you argue. “And I’m fully capable of dressing myself.”

The servant holding your gown shakes her head. “But the back has lacing which requires–”

You snatch the dress away. “I’ll make certain Lord Artorias speaks nothing but your praises to Archmage Griffith,” you affirm, grabbing away the clothing meant for Artorias next, which in their confusion they allow without much of a fight. Which is lucky for you, as you know what they’re capable of should they put their minds to a task. “So long as you both leave me in peace. I’ve had about enough of being doted upon like some kind of maiden,” you end in aggravation, and the servants exchange a nonplussed look.

“But my lady, you _are_ a mai–”

Their objections fizzle out as you begin ushering them both toward the door. “Go on, then! Leave at once,” you suggest with one final nudge. The two of them share another look, before taking their leave with nothing more than a perplexed and slightly baffled bow.

When the door shuts behind them, you finally breathe a sigh of relief. “Honestly,” you mutter as you trail over to the fireplace, falling at once into the lengthy chair before it. The frilly dress you wear is all sorts of itchy and uncomfortable, however, and you’re soon standing back up in order to try and tear the thing off of you. You cannot reach the buttons keeping it closed along the back, however, and so you’re reduced to _actually_ ripping the thing off, piece by shredded piece.

“How do people live like this?!” you demand of Sif as he watches you from curled up beside the fire. At long last the final pieces of the yellow, frilly mess are torn off of you, the remnants of it a scattered memory of what was once a hideous dress littered all around you. And then you step into the crimson gown, wiggling it up your length and tugging its long sleeves up and along your arms. It is a far simpler garment than the yellow monstrosity, with a plunging neckline that clasps with a golden star pendant. You manage to secure that piece of it just fine, but the back of dress… well, perhaps you shouldn’t have sent the servants away, after all, for the golden laces that cinch up the back run up the length of your entire spine, and no matter how you go about reaching behind yourself, you cannot seem to fasten them.

Eventually you give up, leaving the back hanging loose and open as you pull one of the furs off the chair to wrap around yourself, so that perhaps Artorias won’t notice. You sit, your legs tucked to your chest as you huddle before the crackling flames. The sun has long since set now, and the lights of the kingdom shimmer in the darkness outside the rooms large windows, the glimmering of the stars a veil of pinpricks above it. Firelight flickers along the walls surrounding you, painting them in shadows and orange light.

“Sif?” you ask, and his lazy ears pivot in your direction. You hold out the knight’s new set of clothing. “Would you take these to Artorias?”

Sif pushes up from his spot by the fire, taking the folded clothing between his frontmost teeth and scampering away with them, toward the closed off bath chamber behind you.

When you hear the doorway open and the heated smell of steam wafts into the room, you don’t look back, no matter how badly some curious part of you wants to.

“Thank you,” you hear Artorias say to Sif, followed by the sounds of pulled and stretching fabric, and then footsteps, at which point you dare to look back at him.

His pale skin is hinted pink along the angles of his cheekbones, flushed by the warmth of the bath, and a relaxed smile guides his lips. His dark hair is wet and still dripping slightly, tussled over his brow, his blue eyes reflecting the light of the flames and nearly glowing beneath the untamed, raven locks of hair hanging over them. He smooths the unruly tufts of hair back along his head, meeting your gaze as he does. The clothing the servants brought for him seems to fit him well enough, and even manage to be a bit loose on his figure. A dark tunic with a relaxed neckline, its drawstrings left undone, and charcoal pants made of a fabric that hangs loosely off him before clinging to his legs just below the knee.

“Let’s have a look at you,” he says as he steps toward you, coming around the chair to face where you sit.

You make a face, not wanting to put yourself on display. “It looks just fine,” you assure him, but the man is relentless.

“I’ll be the judge of that. You did say I have final word in your disguise.”

Slowly, you push yourself up to stand, clutching the fur about you like a cloak. “See? Fine.”

His eyes follow along your details, before meeting back up with your own. “Without the blanket,” he says, reaching out to take it off of you.

You roll your eyes, wanting to twist away but knowing he’d rid you of the fur’s warmth easily enough despite your objections. And you _did_ promise to let him disguise you at his discretion, so you might as well allow him to make a final judgement on this outfit so the decision can be made, over and done with.

So you drop the fur to the ground, where it falls amongst the pile of yellow and lace tatters you’ve strewn about, and for a moment you don’t lift your gaze as you feel his interest linger over you.

“Well?” you inquire at last, risking a peek up at him.

He’s smiling at least, so that must be a sign of success. His eyes are darker somehow, though perhaps it's just the light; a trick of the flames dancing behind him. “Turn around.”

You hesitate. “But the back–”

“I’ll tie it for you,” he offers, somehow already knowing what you were about to say. And after a moment more of pause, you take a few steps toward him.

“Very well,” you relent, turning your back to him.

He doesn’t reach for the golden tassels that line the open length of your back right away. In fact, he takes so long to begin his task that you begin to wonder if he simply never meant to tie them at all. But eventually his hands find you, his fingertips grasping at the lowermost laces for a moment, tugging at them a few times, only to let them fall away from his outstretched fingers. His hands brush past them entirely, running slowly forward and along your hips, exploring the curves of your waist in deliberate, careful motions.

Your heart jolts at his touch, like it's forgotten how to beat for a brief moment, but you make no attempt to stay the exploration of his hands as they abandon their task to lace up your garment. You nearly forget how to breathe, the lower his hands trail down your front, and you find yourself looking back at him over your shoulder, meeting his spellbound gaze above you before reaching up to grab a fistful of his loose tunic. You pull him down to your height, tugging his face to yours, his lips to your own. And as you kiss him, his hands smooth over your stomach to pull you back, flush against himself.

“This dress won’t do at all,” he breathes, mouthing along the crevice of your jaw for a moment.

One of his hands travels up and over the swell of your breasts, his fingers curling over the edge of your neckline as your tongues reacquaint themselves, as your lungs hitch with longing for one another. “I fear you’ll have to rid yourself of it entirely.”

Slowly, he peels the dress down and off of you, and it falls into a crimson pool at your feet. One large hand kneads your exposed breasts, the other tugging at the flesh of your waist, keeping you close against him as his tongue traces the seam of your lips, insisting that they part for him again.

Fingers clinging tightly to his shirt, you pull him down further as his kiss devours you, deepening in his growing need to feel and taste everything your lips can offer. Teasing the peak of your nipples, he drives a few breathy gasps from you. Every sound you make is swallowed up with eagerness, and always his tongue begs yours for more.

His long, pale fingers trail downward, smoothing down your stomach until his fingertips find the wetness beginning to slick your inner thighs, glistening in the firelight just for him. A groan courses through him, rumbling up his throat as he feels what his touch has so readily inspired in you already. He flips you around at once, his hands behind your thighs in an instant so he can lift you up and off the floor, his lips never leaving yours even as you gasp in surprise.

He briefly laughs before licking into your mouth again, his lust far overpowering his amusement. Stumbling a bit in his blindness, unwilling as he is to actually allow his lips to stray from yours, he carries you with him toward the bed and eventually bumps into it.

He lowers you on top of the blankets, the bed creaking slightly under your combined weight as he crawls on top of you, and then only the sounds of your needful breaths, of the lapping and dancing of your tongues, and the low crackling of the fire surround the two of you as you tangle yourselves in one another.

Reaching up, you pull aside his loose shirt so one hand might slip under it, splaying up and over his arched stomach and chest. Your other hand pulls him nearer, gripping in the dampness of his black hair.

“Is this...” he breathes against you, his teeth scraping along the plush of your lower lip. “Is this too much for you?” he wants to know, though he doesn’t stop.

You barely manage to shake your head, your hand on his stomach trailing down his skin, angling toward his pants. “I want more.”

“Take whatever you like,” he speaks against your lips, and at his encouragement, your fingers find the stiff ridge of his cock beneath the fabric trapping it. He sucks in a jilted breath when your hand slips under the band of his pants, and the second your touch finds his straining hardness beneath them a low moan escapes him, the sound of it muffled against your mouth. You recapture his lips, and his needy tongue delves into you with growing fervor.

He’s aching for you, and you stroke up and down his length, reveling in the tremors that run through him with each movement, like he’s trying desperately not to lose himself entirely and ravage you like an unthinking beast as your each and every stroke threatens to undo him. You’d perhaps like nothing more than to transform this knight into a beast, and so you continue to tease him, varying the speed and motion of how you work his hardness until you find just the right tempo that has him panting hot and ragged against you.

And though he must keep one elbow pressed into the bed beside you in order not to crush you under his weight, his free hand slips for a moment under the small of your back, arching your spine toward him, before changing course and brushing down between your thighs. “I’ve been imagining just how I might make your legs cling to me again,” he murmurs, just as one long finger slips along your folds. And then he presses inside your warmth, the length of his finger delving into the tightness of your walls while the others spread your wetness open for him.

You choke back a gasp and immediately lose focus in stroking him. His finger drags in and out of you, every thrust curling in search of just where exactly will have you clinging and moaning for him. He finds it easily enough, and you bite into his neck when he does to try and stifle your needy mewls and sobbing gasps. Your back arches into him, begging him for more, and he’s more than happy to comply.

You barely hear when Sif begins to growl beside the fireplace, but Artorias’ body tenses, and his delving fingers pause in their endeavors to shatter you completely beneath him, despite how painfully hard he remains in your slackened hand.

The second a series of firm knocks echo with insistence throughout the room, banging away from the door of the chamber, Artorias is off of you in an instant. As you turn in haggard confusion toward the door, you find he already has his giant greatsword in hand, plucked up from where it once rested at an angle against the wall.

“What… Who could that possibly be?” you stammer to ask, your mind torn in two by your residual haze of lust and your mounting confusion.

He glances back at you, before stepping toward the fire to grab up the fur blanket abandoned on the floor, tossing it over your nakedness as you lean up on your elbows to follow him. “Stay hidden.”

“Artorias–”

“Don’t argue,” he cuts you off, and you don’t dare defy him, not with the dangerous way the firelight dances across his gaze. His jaw is tense, and he brushes your discarded dress under the seat beside it with one foot, hiding it away from view, before making his way toward the door.

“Who dares disrupt me at his hour?” he questions as he approaches.

“The King,” a muffled voice announces at the other side.

Artorias hesitates in his surprise, but is soon opening the door so that the King may enter.

You cautiously peek through the mountain of fur you hide beneath - you can’t help yourself - and you spot three men enter the room before the door is closed behind them. They are all dressed in the ivory robes of sorcerers, though such garb seems to serve as merely a disguise. Once their hoods are removed, not a one of them strikes you as much of a mage. Their leader is clearly the King, and he wears a crown upon his brow. The others are adorned by various scars on their faces, both of them seeming far too battle-tried and thick-necked for the scholarly endeavors wielding magic requires, despite what their sorcerer’s cloaks might suggest.

“Forgive my intrusion at this late hour, my Lord Artorias,” the King announces in a rather quiet tone.

“You are welcome in any reach of your castle, of course, and at any hour,” Artorias assures, though he doesn’t sound particularly enthused by the interruption.

The King gives Artorias a wry smile, before striding past him and toward the fire. You pull your peephole tighter until he turns away from you to stand before the fireplace, arms clasped behind his back as he gazes into the flames in a long moment of silence. Artorias watches from the doorway alongside the King’s guard, his arms folding across his chest as he does.

“You must be wondering what brings me here,” the King says at last.

Artorias lifts a gentle brow. “Well… yes. You assume correctly.”

The King glances over at him. “I could not speak as openly as I wished during our counsel in the throne room. There are many eyes and ears that carry even the softest of whispers spoken there, oft to those I don’t wish to hear them. And I would ask for your aid in something most urgent, my Lord. Though I am owed nothing, I would ask it all the same, and you may see fit to heed me regardless.”

Artorias is silent as he contemplates the King’s words. “And what would you ask of me?”

The King sighs, his eyes returning to the flickering of the fire before him. “I am… unaccustomed to speaking so plainly, but given the state of things…” he sighs again. “I must admit. I fear I am losing control of Oolacile.”

Neither men say a word in the stillness that follows such an admission, though eventually Artorias brings himself to stand beside the king. He rests his greatsword against the seat behind them as he does.

“The sorcerers,” the King elaborates to Artorias’ unspoken question, with a rigid sideways glance up at the tall knight. “More specifically, the Archmage Griffith, who commands their number. I fear both he and they may be more a threat to Oolacile than I ever imagined.”

Artorias scoffs at the mention of the Archmage. “I will not pretend to like him, but is he not loyal to you?”

“He gives every appearance of seeming so. And yet he is a cautious snake, I fear, one who appears loyal until the very moment he is not.” The King hesitates, like he isn’t sure exactly what information to lead with, or perhaps what details to give away. “His power grows steadily every day, both in magecraft and in his influence throughout the kingdom. His sorcerers have also begun gaining power, though I know not exactly how. Griffith is… secretive. Studious. And his scholarly endeavors have, it would seem, born fruit as of late. His artistry and control of new sorceries is terrifying to behold, and he promises such knowledge to his many followers. Several in his command are already quite formidable under his direction, and are so formidable now that, should the group of them decide to overthrow me, I could do little to stop them.”

“Surely your guardsmen could stop a few sorcerers,” Artorias murmurs in objection. “Even should Griffith be one of them.”

“This new darkness he wields seems quite capable in making such a task difficult,” the King shakes his head. “And it isn’t merely a few sorcerers, my Lord; most of the sorcerers in the city are keen to receive Griffith’s teachings and will do anything he asks in exchange for it. I can offer them very little in that regard.”

A muscle in Artorias jaw ripples, as he seems to grit his teeth while contemplating this. “You should have taken off the pale snake's head while you still had the chance, it would seem.”

“Indeed I should have,” the King agrees, glancing up at the Lord. “But now I must ask that you take his head for me.”

Artorias laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “You wish for me to kill your Archmage?”

“Yes,” the King admits without a moment's hesitation. “For the good of all of Oolacile, and perhaps even for the good of Lordran.”

Artorias meets his steady gaze. “Surely his power isn’t so great as that.”

“Perhaps not his,” the King concedes. “But possibly of those he is rumored to make dark dealings with, or of that which I fear he seeks to awaken…”

You can see how carefully Artorias considers the King in that moment. “And what does he seek to awaken?”

“I hear only whispers,” the King imparts, the voice dropping lower. “Whispers of what Griffith and his pupils practice at the depths of the kingdom’s dungeons. Rumors of what he does to its prisoners in the pursuits of discovering new magic. Of how he commands many of their number to dig down into the very belly of this land, though I know not why, or at whose behest, other than he seeks to awaken… someone. Something.”

The two men watch one another in silence. “I must admit,” Artorias says at last. “I did not expect to be drawn into a political coup when I came here. Nor did I intend to take part in an execution.”

“And though I beg your forgiveness for asking it of you, I ask it of you all the same.”

Together, they keep a close eye on each other's every movement, every slight change in expression as the shadows cast by the fire flicker over their features. “Very well,” Artorias accepts at last, and the King’s shoulders slouch in his relief. “I will find the snake in his pit of dungeons on the morrow, and bring you back his pale head.”

“I wouldn’t advise seeking him out in such a place,” the King reproaches warily. “I know not the extent of how his power might grow the further into the darkness his sorceries travel.”

“What better way to root out such darkness,” Artorias counters, “and all those who cling to it, than to destroy and displace it from within its very blackened heart?”

The King is silent for a long while, until he at last utters, “Very well, my Lord. I trust you to handle things as best you see fit, as well as your judgement in this matter. But I would warn you to be cautious.”

His eyes trail to Sif as he says this, and then to the bed behind the wolf, where he seems to spot the glimmer of firelight in your peeking eyes, for as he stares a smile slowly draws his face, one that makes him appear far kinder than his worried lines would suggest. “Forgive me, Lord Artorias; the hour is late indeed, and I didn’t realize you entertained other, fairer company.”

Artorias peers past the amusement of the King, the exasperation evident on his face upon you being spotted.

Laughing quietly, though his good humor doesn’t hold him for long, the King makes to leave. “I pray for your good fortune and success, my Lord,” he offers as he and his guards pull their hoods up once more. And then the three of them depart, leaving you, Artorias, and Sif in the silence of the crackling fire left behind them.

You hobble out of bed at once, the blankets drawn about you as you tiptoe toward the knight. “Artorias,” you say as you reach him, slipping one hand along the small of his back.

He turns back to look at you, before nodding toward the bed. “You should sleep, little one.”

“As should you,” you argue, grabbing his hand to pull him away with you.

He steals his hand from yours, a worried line creasing his brow. “I need to think,” he says, though when you grab his hand again he allows you to pull him toward you. “I didn’t expect a request from Alvina to become so complicated. Nor quite so dangerous as taking the head of an Archmage...” he adds, tucking some of your hair behind one ear.

“Come to bed with me,” you murmur, and he tugs you toward him enough to lean down and kiss you, his free hand brushing up the back of your neck as he does.

But just as suddenly his lips are torn from yours, and he spins you toward the bed, giving you a little nudge. “Do as I say, little cat.”

He walks past you in your hesitance, sitting down before the fire, and you wander after him, curling up on the bench alongside him.

“Little one–”

“Shh,” you hush him, your head in his lap as you pull the blanket more snuggly about yourself. “I will sleep, as you say, but I will do so wherever I please.”

And even though he sighs as if you’re tormenting him, he does so with the faintest of smiles. “You are unbearably stubborn.”

“I find you bear me well enough,” you yawn, smiling lazily as his fingers find their way into your hair. The trailing patterns of his fingertips and the warmth of the fire has you falling asleep in his lap before you really even mean to.

“The Archmage… Griffith...” you breathe as your eyes begin to close, and your brows form a crease as you picture his silver features. “He frightens me, he... I… I fear that what the King says is true. That he is indeed a most powerful sorcerer.” You’re not sure how you would even know this, but... you do. Somehow, you do. And the fear you feel for him sinks its teeth into your very bones.

“I would never allow him to harm you,” Artorias promises, his fingers brushing for a moment along the curve of your ear. He chuckles when you shiver under his touch. “Go to sleep, little one. We can discuss such things in the morning.”

And though you would rather stay awake with him in solidarity, in your exhaustion and in the warmth and comfort his nearness provides, you can’t seem to help yourself.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm suffering from third degree slow burns now x_x
> 
> Here’s a pic of Griffith in case ya interested (he’s the pale and beautiful one of course)(And yes he’s inspired directly from another Berserk character of the same name)(I should probably just write some Berserk fics already)
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks for reading! Ima take a little break from this storyline to do THIS MANY oneshots: *sample text - insert unknown number of oneshots here before posting this chapter - don’t forget to put the number tho that would be super embarrassing*
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> The Pursuer  
> Dragonslayer Ornstein  
> Abyss Watchers  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Greirat  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Solaire of Astora
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	11. The Nameless King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynsen has plans for his dear friend Ornstein - plans involving you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Even though this features Gwynsen and Ornstein, this is NOT the ‘Age of Gods’ arc. (Gwynsen being the Nameless King when he yet had a name).
> 
> ** Also I got a request for an Ornstein x maid pairing, and this is my rendition of that. I may write an -actual- maid at some point, but this idea kinda took over my current plans for that :P Sorry to Mina if you hate it, but let me know either way ;D
> 
> *** Also also I *will* get to all requests, but some require a bit more inspiration, or are too similar to other characters I’ve recently written and so I wanna hold off on them a bit.

**♡First up in this little dalliance, the one and only…. Nameless King♡**

* * *

  
  


Liena bursts through the flaps in the open doorway, her eyes overlarge and overflowing with her excitement. “He’s really coming!” 

You glance up at her from where you laze on one of many couches, but you don’t actually bother to get up; merely lift your heavy lashes a bit in her direction. Your eyes catch the candlelight as you watch her stumble inside the brothel, wiggling with all the elation of an eager pup.

“Surely you’re blind, child,” Jordana, the elderly brothel Madam, is quick to dismiss the girl's ridiculous outburst.

“Even a blind man would know it was him!” Liena counters at once, trying desperately to tame her frazzled hair. “He’s head and shoulders above the rest, and his _hair -_ and his _eyes!_ ” She’s far too electrified to even finish a single thought, and she darts toward the nearest end table to pluck up a hand mirror to inspect and rectify her wind-tossed appearance.

She pulls and prods at her face as Jordana’s eyes narrow at the girl. “You…” she begins, hesitant. “You’re certain?”

“I’ve never been more certain of a thing in my life!”

That throws Jordana into quite a state, though you’re far less inclined to believe the words of your over-excited friend.

Jordana smooths over her skirts at once. “Liena, grab the others and get them in here!” she demands. “And hurry!” 

Liena darts away at her behest, already calling out for the other girls to ‘come quickly, a _Lord_ is coming!’, and the gray-tinged Madam turns on you, next.

You barely lift one brow. “Yes?”

“Get up this instant!” she harshly demands, and you roll your eyes at the state of frenzy she’s fallen into.

“You know she’s probably just imagining things or something, right?” you ask, making no moves to stand or straighten your appearance. 

“Get up now, you bothersome girl!” Jordana hisses with impatience, and then she turns to rally the rest of the girls as they flock into the room like an elated, scantily-clad herd of sheep. They’re all buzzing with excitement, and you roll your eyes again before pushing yourself off the couch to join them.

Jordana is still shuffling her girls into a presentable row, yourself now included in their unfortunate number, though you’re seriously considering just sneaking away into the moonlight outside as the rest of your friends attempt to glamorise their appearances in flittered states of excitement and unrest. And then you see them; one silver knight, and then another, as they duck through the doorway from the main hall, their armor clinking with their every step. And then you see _him;_ and oh do you _fucking see him_ . He can barely even fit himself through the doorway, and when he does his weightless, silver hair brushes the height of the ceiling - the _thirteen foot tall ceiling._

You blink up at him, your eyes going rather wide, your lips parting in silent disbelief as all the other girls squirm and giggle at the sight of him, or fall into complete, terrified, statuesque silence. 

Lord Gwyn’s firstborn is standing in your brothel. You’d have never believed it if you weren't seeing it with your own eyes.

Liena nudges you with her shoulder as if she knows this, and you can barely spare her a glance, such is the magnetism of the prince. “I told you so!” she hisses with a sly grin.

“My Lord,” Jordana welcomes, sweeping into a bow. She’s doing a rather good job in keeping her wits about her, you think, because you just _know_ she’s a nervous wreck on the inside. She stands to earn a lot of money tonight by serving such a patron, but she could just as easily lose her head. Who knows what this Lord is truly after, though you suspect he means to take a few girls with him into one of the adjacent rooms for whatever that reason may be. 

Then again, he is a _prince_ ; so perhaps he’ll just take every single girl right here, right now, in this very chamber; Jordana included.

And though his mighty and towering presence demands the captivation of everyone surrounding him, you find you’re not interested in becoming his plaything, no matter how much you might be paid for it. To be perfectly honest, you’ve been considering abandoning this line of work altogether, and if a _Lord_ cannot whet your appetite in staying, then you truly are without hope in anything convincing you. Perhaps you’ll even leave first thing on the morrow.

But for now, you stay, somewhere near the end of the line of possible candidates for this Lord to shove his cock into.

_No, thanks._

“Madam,” the Lord Gwynsen greets as Jordana rises from her bow, and his voice is like gentle thunder. “I’ve come to solicit the services of one of your ladies.”

“Of course - please, select whomever you like. We are most honored to accommodate your any inclination, my Lord,” Jordana provides with another lowered bow. 

Gwynsen grins at that; it’s not unkind, though it holds more amusement than you care for or understand. “I’m happy to hear it,” he booms, and his near-glowing eyes roam over the lot of you, all lined up and presented just for his royal lordliness.

_Ugh,_ you inwardly scoff, casting your gaze aside with disinterest. You cannot even fathom what has brought him here, other than you’ve heard rumors that his legions were passing through the area, their camps set just outside the city in their exodus home from battle. Perhaps he is bored this evening, you muse, and you mean not to sate any such boredom.

The towering Lord draws forward in his assessment of what options are available to him, starting at the opposite end of the row of girls from yourself. Good - hopefully he’ll find whatever he’s looking for before he gets to you.

“Do you have a specific taste, my Lord?” Jordana questions, scittering out of the way so that Gwynsen can slowly meander down the line of possibilities. “We cater to nearly every taste.” 

“I can see that,” Gwynsen pauses in front of Tristane, a handsome man with lightly corded muscles, and he meets Tristane’s coy gaze with an appreciative chuckle before moving on.

The girls all either meet the prince’s gaze with eagerness as he passes over them, smoothing their hands through their hair or over the curves of their hips in suggestive showiness, or are completely overwhelmed and can barely even look up at him, their muscles locked and trembling in fear. He considers them each in turn, careful in assessing their every detail. 

“But not specific, no,” he muses, his eyes never straying from their studious task. “I know not of what I seek, other than I’ll know it when I see it.”

He’s passing up every girl, you realize with a slight rise in annoyance and, despite yourself, a feathering of panic. No, he must be simply assessing everyone in turn before making a final decision.

Finally, he comes to stand before you, and you give him a rather casual and disrespectful once over, starting at his inexplicably, nearly bare feet, and ending at his glowing, golden eyes. You meet his incandescent gaze head-on, its warmth peering down at you past the thick folds of his crimson cowl, a slight frown on your face as you do. And though you can’t see the lower half of his face from this angle, the lines that crease his eyes suggest he’s smiling at you.

“Are you not happy to see me?” he lightly asks in response to your terse expression. 

You can just _feel_ Jordana’s glare burning into you from wherever it is she's assessing the situation, but you ignore her, lifting a single brow up at the prince instead. You even cross your arms across your chest, which as Jordana would say, ‘closes off the view to potential clients’ and is certainly frowned upon. In fact, _were_ you to spare a glance at your Madam, you’d likely find her eyes had sparked into infuriated, reprehending flame.

And though you don’t want to lose your head - for obvious reasons - you still have no interest in interesting this Lord. This is the reason you blow out a small, uncaring huff of breath before casting your gaze away from his. “I’m happy enough,” you brood carelessly.

You’d expected him to move along, but he doesn’t. He’s still standing there for some reason. And when he chuckles like an embodied thunderstorm, you can’t help but look up at him again, your lips pouted in mild confusion.

“You don’t look it,” he tells you, his tone suggestive of his laughter.

Perhaps you should have batted your lashes at him like the rest of them, instead of giving him your sharpened tongue, for now you seem to hold his attention. You glance at the girls to your right, and see a mixture of relief, jealousy, or spite across their watchful faces. 

Looking back to Gwynsen, you stretch your lips into something of a grimace, before muttering without enthusiasm, “Is this better?”

For a moment there’s nothing but silence, and you begin to wonder if your impudence will actually cost you your neck. But then the prince bursts into laughter; the sound thundering from his chest.

“You,” he grins, catching your gaze and holding it, “are perfect.”

You stare up at him in wavering, skeptical disbelief.

Jordana doesn’t seem to like where this is heading. “My Lord,” she rushes in, angling to step between you and Gwynsen, though hesitating from actually doing so. “This one is… well she’s–”

“I’ve made my decision,” Gwynsen states in finality, and Jordana cuts herself short in fidgety reluctance. He doesn’t even look at her; his glowing eyes are on you. “What is your name, little one?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t even want to be his whore. But you’re not entirely sure you have the option of declining the firstborn prince. 

“______,” you tell him at last, your expression falling flat, and his eyes gently crease with his responding amusement.

“A lovely name for a lovely woman,” he muses, and you can’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes at such a tacky compliment. Luckily the offense doesn’t end with you being backhanded, as it has on occasion with previous clients, and you question whether or not you have an actual death wish for acting in such a way with someone whose backhand could likely send you flying across the room.

The thought has you muscling yourself into being a _bit_ more chipper when you meet his gaze again. “Shall I lead you to a more private chamber, then, my Lord?” you ask with forced inflection.

“Come,” he instructs instead, turning away already. “You’re riding with me.”

“Riding?” you repeat, something constricting in your chest. He wishes to _take_ you somewhere?

“Your ability to hear clearly spoken words is impressive,” he casts back at you. “And I trust you heard the first part, as well, so I won’t bother to repeat myself.”

He walks away, his silver knights falling into formation behind him, and you stare after him in bewilderment until Jordana shoves you forward a step.

“Follow him, you dolt!” she hisses so only you will hear. Yet as you step forward to actually do so, she pulls you back by the back of your short, green dress. “And don’t you even _think_ to dare bring shame or retaliation on this house!” she warns you darkly. “Do as you’re told - _everything_ you’re told - I don’t care _what_ it is - and if I hear a single word of complaint against you I’ll take it from your pay _and_ your hide!”

You pull away from her grip with a lowered scowl. You don’t actually believe she’d hurt you, though she _has_ slapped you a time or two before when you’ve cost her a paying client. “I will be of the utmost reticence and obedience, my lady,” you croon with dripping sarcasm, and she nearly slaps you right then and there. 

She pushes you forward so forcefully that you stumble and nearly fall on your face, instead. “Go, you insufferable girl!” she demands vehemently, and you straighten yourself before striding out of the brothel and after the prince.

He and his knights await by their monstrous horses, the size of their mounts befitting that of their riders. Gwynsen’s is largest indeed, and you openly stare at it, just as everyone else still passing by in the night-drenched streets. 

You suspected that the prince’s eyes might actually glow in the dark, and as he smiles down at you, you find you were not incorrect. It's a soft, golden radiance that looks down from above, and he gestures you approach him. “Come along, _______,” he says, and you can’t help but gasp when he suddenly picks you up by your waist.

His hands are so large they nearly swallow you up, and he places you atop his giant’s horse before slipping up into the saddle behind you, one of those hands brushing over your stomach to hold you in place against him.

His grip is firm and oh so warm. In fact, you find his hand is doing things to you you’d rather ignore, and you attempt to swallow them back while also internally lecturing yourself for being even in the smallest way infatuated by a client - and especially with one fully incapable of returning the sentiment, no less, for no God would be beguiled by a whore.

Still, that doesn’t mean that when he leans down to whisper in your ear, it doesn’t send a flashwave of goosebumps running down your neck.

“Hold on tight, little one,” he breaths, and you grab the saddle horn as if it's your only anchor to reality. You would have regardless, such is his sudden and unwanted effect on you. “We ride faster than most humans are used to. But don’t worry,” he adds with a grin. “I’ll keep a careful hand on you.”

You should probably ignore the rising, heated interest you have in this God, but you’re really bad with the whole listening to sage advice thing. So you turn to look back at him, and find that his face is very close to yours. Still, you don’t move away, and neither does he. “You had better,” you warn, your eyes grabbing hold of his. “For I’m not above slapping a Lord, should he fail to keep his word.”

He seems surprised by this for the briefest of moments. “You mean to slap me, little one?” he asks quietly.

Gods, his voice is… _unfairly_ attractive. “Among other things,” you respond at last, and you feel his hand gently press against you, pulling you a bit closer.

"Are you not afraid of how I might respond to such an offense?" he asks you.

His tone is fairly serious, and you should probably not take it lightly. And yet your answer is still, "I find myself looking forward to however you might wish to punish me." 

The sound of his throaty, contented hum is enough to let you know he's not opposed to whatever delicious punishment you have in mind. “I’m afraid I must insist you stop tempting me,” he murmurs, even as he angles as if to smell your hair. 

You allow the intimacy of it - you _like_ it, even. Perhaps you even lean into him a bit. “You find me tempting, my Lord?” you ask with a teasing look.

“I won’t deny it,” he admits, his gaze beginning to smolder over you. “But you aren’t mine tonight. Quite unfortunately,” he adds, his gaze falling to your lips. Your heart lodges itself in your throat as you notice this, and you force yourself to swallow it back down. “You’re a gift this evening," he continues, with a light, throaty chuckle. "Though I hadn’t anticipated you’d be such a distracting one.”

“A gift?” you repeat, unable to keep the disappointment from your voice.

He laughs to hear it. “Indeed,” he muses. “For a worthy friend. And you have just the right temperament to slip through his assured objection in receiving it." He seems to resist rolling his eyes; a gesture which, coming from a God, amuses you to no end. "Gods forbid he let loose his unwavering severity for even a single night.”

You eye the Lord as you contemplate his words. “Your friend is stubborn, then?”

“I’ve met none more steadfast than he,” Gwynsen responds. “Though I must insist you break through his resolve tonight, for it’s been far too long since he’s bedded a woman, and I find his doggedness as remarkable as it is infuriating.” He grabs your chin for a moment, ensuring that you meet his glowing gaze. “You will do whatever it takes to win him over, little one. And should you succeed, you’ll be generously compensated.”

That doesn’t sound like a bad deal in the slightest, though you lift a brow at him anyway. “And how will you know whether or not I succeed?”

He seems to smile. “I’ll know,” he assures, simply and firmly. He then urges his steed to start off through the night, and his mounted knights follow suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued with golden lion boy in part two :D
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> The Pursuer  
> Giant Crab  
> Abyss Watchers  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Skeleton Bowling Ball  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Greirat  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Curse-Rotted Greatwood  
> Patches & Lautrec wombo combo  
> Man-eater Mildred  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Elizabeth the Mushroom  
> Crystal Lizard gang bang  
> Solaire of Astora
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	12. Dragonslayer Ornstein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re tasked with seducing the Dragonslayer without wringing his neck first. Easy, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - Me: I’m gonna make this a short chapter, like the last one! :D  
> Also me: *glances at final word count and fucking dies*
> 
> 2 - For anyone who didn’t read the previous chapter, this is a continuation of that. But if you don't want to read that one, you'll probably be just fine going forward 
> 
> 3 - I re-read through this thing, re-read all the things contained within the thing, but at a certain point I'm just like 'fuck it' and post the things. But if you're somewhat of a perfectionist like me and you see any glaring typos or whatnot just let me know in the comments, and I'll fix up those thingy things right away
> 
> 4 - Ornstein's hair is not the plume of his helm - fight me

**♡A big golden lion boy appears… Dragonslayer Ornstein♡**

* * *

  
  


Lord Gwynsen’s compound is a sprawling tapestry of torchlight and tents, set upon a grassy hillside not far from the outskirts of the city. Groups of men crowd around a scattering of fires; the sounds of drunken chatter and mirth surrounding you in the night. And as the towering prince leads you through the encampment, you even pass by a jeering circle of men strung round a pair of fighters throwing fists and knives at one another. Gwynsen glances at them in brief amusement, though you’re a bit less enthused to be swallowed up in the likes of such company, and scurry along quickly to keep alongside the prince.

As you continue deeper into the surrounding camp, a few of the tents grow larger in stature, their siding and structure rising with more elegance, indicative of their tenants of higher rank. And it is to one of these tents, large and cream-colored, billowing in the gentle night breeze and set a bit aside from most of the others, that Gwynsen leads you. 

This must be the tent of the prince’s friend to whom you are to be gifted; the captain of Lord Gwyn’s four, Dragonslayer Ornstein. And you’ve heard his name before, of course - he’s something of a living legend - though you’d never in your wildest dreams imagined you’d ever be standing in his presence. 

And yet here you are, tasked with bewitching the legendary dragonslayer, and put up to it by the firstborn prince himself, no less.

You pinch yourself once just to make sure you’re not actually sleeping.

_Ow._

Gwynsen stops you for a moment a small way still from the lone tent. At this reach of the compound there is little in the way of raucous conversation and firelight, though the closed-off tent glows beside you both with the candles inside it. The echoes of camp are perhaps no louder than the surrounding song of crickets. 

Gwynsen’s little smile is captured by the moonlight, hanging high above you. “You mustn't allow him to send you away,” he instructs. “Though surely he will try.”

“He would reject a gift from his prince?” you question with mild disbelief, though the idea doesn’t seem _that_ unheard of, seeing as how you yourself considered to reject the prince’s decision to procure you when first he arrived in your brothel.

“Not to my face,” he slowly grins. “But perhaps once my back is turned.”

“Are you even certain I’m to his taste?” you wonder with a suggestive brow. “Perhaps I’ve no chance in winning him over.”

“Hmm,” the firstborn thoughtfully hums, before stooping down to crouch before you at your level. You blink in surprise at just how swiftly a man of his stature can actually move. “We share a similar liking. So perhaps I ought to find out.” And before you realize what he’s doing, one large hand slips behind the small of your back, and he pulls you forward until you’re _dangerously_ close to him. 

He smiles at whatever startled expression you hold, his eyes illuminated in the night like lanterns of amusement, before he leans down to kiss you. And it isn’t a chaste kiss, either. His lips are quick to part yours, and you gasp as his tongue dances forth to meet your own, demanding in his compulsion to taste you. 

And normally you would slap a man for kissing you without warning like this, but he is no man - he is a God, and he kisses you with all the commanding fervency of one. He tastes like sunlit honey, and you want to drown in it.

You find you’re practically melting when he finally pulls back, a primal smirk on his lips. His eyes even seem to glow with more golden light than before, like two hooded, sun-melted moons staring into some deep part of you. “I daresay he’ll enjoy you,” he muses at last. 

To say he’s left you breathless with naught but a kiss would be an understatement, and you’ve half a mind to simply lean back in and keep kissing him, though as he stands back to his full height that becomes an impossibility. Probably for the better, for you’re likely to make a fool of yourself. 

“Come along,” he says, turning to lead you toward the tent. “I’ll present you as my most-tempting gift, and the rest, my delectable creature, is up to you.”

You swallow whatever is lodged in your throat, before brushing forward with him toward the glowing tent. You’re not really sure how it is Gwynsen is so certain you’re to be rejected, not if he also insists you’re to his captain’s liking; nor are you quite certain how it is that any man would turn down a free and gifted fucking.

Then again, you’ve never met the Dragonslayer.

Gwynsen ducks into the tent, brushing past the heavy fabric of the doorway that’s still a _bit_ too short for him despite being crafted to a Lord’s height. And when you step in after him, you see the place is set up as sort of a makeshift war room. There’s perhaps a cot or a bed of some kind in the shadows behind an intricate, folding barrier; one of several walls surrounding a giant war table, its grandeur set atop a provisional, wooden section of flooring erected just slightly over the grass at the room’s center.

And standing behind that war table, studious in his contemplation of its geography and wood-pieced formations, stands captain of the four. His armor is breathtaking; painstakingly crafted, meticulously sculpted, hammered and smoothed and forged into scale-like points. It’s as much a work of art as it is a suit for battle, and its many golden facets and intricacies catch the wavering of the candlelight filling the room.

Ornstein looks up at his prince’s arrival, the crimson plume that sprouts like a blood-red waterfall from his lion’s helm fluttering with the movement. It’s really the only way you even know he’s seen the prince, seeing as how his visor shields his every detail, masking his reactions behind the fanged, glowering maw of a golden beast.

“My prince,” he says in greeting, his voice the deepened growl his lion’s mask would suggest. He doesn’t say anything after that; he simply stares in a growing, heavy silence, and you begin to suspect he’s spotted you. 

And, should that be the case, he doesn’t exactly seem happy about it.

“Still pouring over stratagems of battle, I see,” Gwynsen muses, his thundering voice flexed with an air of disapproval. And yet at the same time he still sounds vaguely commendatory. Like he finds his captain’s unbending focus on such a task as admirable as it is infuriating. He brushes forward into the war room, glancing at Ornstein's war plans as he passes them. 

You remain near the opposite end of the table, a bit overwhelmed by this war room of Gods you’ve been dragged into. Though as you continue to feel the dragonslayer’s silent gaze, you meet his golden, unblinking eyes with more of a rapt curiosity than anything else, all while Gwynsen thunders over you both, “I’ve half a mind to think you haven’t yet realized the battle is won, captain.” 

Although Ornstein’s beast-like visage is steadfast in it’s lion’s scowl, you sense the actual knight might have restrained something like an eyeroll. 

Gwynsen grins, his teeth pressed to the plush of his lower lip in good nature, likely sensing this as well. “We’ve brought my father a tasteful victory, by and large thanks to your efforts. Am I to assume that a single moment of respite may actually kill you?”

His gentle laughter threads itself through the cords of silence erected by the lion knight, and he wanders alongside his friend to rap a heavy hand on the captain’s shoulder, just below the crook of his neck, lest the pointed edges of the lion’s pauldrons cut into his godly fingers. Still, the gesture and its placement seems rather intimate to you, and indicative of just how fondly the prince regards his captain.

Ornstein more or less ignores his prince in that moment, however. “It seems you’ve been trailed by a barely clothed minx,” he suggests without enthusiasm, his lion’s eyes never leaving you. 

You lift a wry brow at him, though he doesn’t remark on it, and you avoid otherwise commenting on what you suspect is an insult - though, honestly, you’ve been called much worse. He barely glances at Gwynsen before turning back to the pieces scattered across the war table, taking one with the likeness of a dragon about to take flight, shifting it ever so slightly on the table’s landscape - not enough to actually mean much other than to prove just how busy he is. “And if you would, please take her elsewhere. I’m well aware our latest skirmish brought us victory, but you know as well as I that our war is far from over.”

Gwynsen’s lashes lower a bit over his glowing eyes as he regards his stubborn companion, his smile falling a bit in turn. “We’ve some time before our next fray. Plenty of time, in fact, for you to entertain your diligent mind with other matters.” His smile hooks dryly. “Life is not lived through battle alone.”

“Is that so,” Ornstein replies, his interest a flat line.

“Though you may find such a thing unfortunate,” Gwynsen slowly muses, glancing at the table’s lay of battlements. “As your friend, I must advise you dismiss yourself from this table for a single night. Just the one. I believe you might manage such a grueling task.” He turns back to the dragonslayer, a grin hinting his lips. “And as your prince, I must also warn you I’m not above making this suggestion an order

He laughs a bit when Ornstein stiffly looks over at him, though he makes no comment. Gwynsen meets his stony gaze before nodding to where you stand at the opposite end of the war table. “The minx trails after me as a gift, one with whom to celebrate your prowess in battle.”

A scoff escapes Ornstein before his self restraint can stop it, and he glances over at you as well. “That isn’t…” He cuts short an exasperated sigh before doling out respectfully, “Thank you, my prince.” His gratitude is little more than a brittle growl. “But I–”

“You are most welcome,” Gwynsen cuts off with an ever-present grin, not giving his captain time enough to object. He endorses the man with another heavy rap of the shoulder, one that nearly makes the leo knight stumble a step, and surely would have hammered you like a nail into the earth. “I’m certain the two of you will find a way to amuse yourselves. Perhaps you might demonstrate to her how your tireless expertise aren’t solely confined to the battlefield.” 

He walks away with that, tossing you a little look of clever amusement as he passes; and then the tent flaps billow behind where you stand, and the prince has slipped out into the night without another word.

Your gaze trails after his departure, before turning back once more to face the captain. You don’t move from where you stand, calculating the golden knight as he watches you in an equal amount of silence, both of you likely thinking up how best to bend through the other’s resolve first, for you’re both surely on opposing sides of a similar mission.

Ornstein beats you in having the first word. “You may go,” he shortly dismisses, his attention returning to the table in front of him.

Well, that was fast. 

“I thank you,” you respond, while adding just as simply, “But I cannot.”

“No one need know of your departure,” he assures without looking at you.

“I _will not,_ ” you seek to specify, and succeed in recapturing his impatient and vacillant attention.

“And why is that?” he wonders aloud. Now that the prince is gone, his disdain toward your presence in his war room is palpable; like a substance lingering in the air you could actually cut through were you to try. “Your procurer is quite absent, and as such there’s no one here to stop you.” He eyes you in contemplative silence, and eventually a lowered scoff finds him. “Are you so _noble a whore_ that you cannot abandon your task to distract me? To sway my attentions from far more important matters? Or do you somehow believe that whatever warmth lingers between your legs holds more importance than a captain of Gwyn’s designs?”

You’ve half a mind to take offense to that, but you’re not giving up _that_ easily. So you swallow your pride before brooding instead, “It may surprise you how compelling being between my legs can be.” 

Drawing toward him, you wander along the length of the table, the height of which could easily brush your shoulder, stopping just around it’s corner from the assuredly glowering captain. You hook one casual hand over the table’s edge as you hold his lion’s gaze, and steadily lift one brow in a show of your unwavering adamance, your lips pinching in at the corners as you do. 

He graces your persistence with a barely heard, derisive huff of breath. “Very well; stay, then, if you must,” he grumbles at last. “Far be it from me to send you from your momentous task. But remain as you are; away from me, and seek not to disturb me, for I haven’t the time, patience, or inclination to deal with you.”

The smile you’ve forced into place wavers just a bit. “You know, your prince told me you were stubborn beyond comprehension. But he forgot entirely to mention just how charming you are.”

A low bit of laughter finds the leo knight, subdued enough that it seems to have found him despite his liking, and he moves about a few pieces over the topography of the table. “I wasn’t placed here to charm you, nor was I aware a whore required charm on top of payment.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you muse, and he spares you a brief look before shifting a few more battlements. 

His attention leaves you entirely as he does, the machinations of his war-focused mind forming some kind of ulterior plan to the one currently set in place atop the table; one he seeks to rectify by altering the path of two pieces carved to your recognition as the wolf knight and the Lord’s blade. 

You watch him ruminating and conceptualizing over various trajectories for a time, rapping your fingers across the side of the table as you do, though your brief amusement at identifying a few of his toys is rather swift to plummet and fall through the floor, leaving you entirely in the growing silence and boredom that follows. Ornstein isn’t much for conversation, nor it would seem for pleasure, and you begin to think that perhaps you might fail in your task to seduce this Lord, after all. Perhaps it was even a hopeless endeavor from the very beginning, in fact. You’re reduced to envisioning highly improbable scenarios as you contemplate how you would even go about beguiling someone as stringent as he - ones that include you simply throwing your clothes off, and end in him simply tossing you out of his tent and into the drunken masses outside.

Well… at the very least, you seek to entertain yourself from your muted efforts before officially admitting defeat. “What’s this?” you ask, taking some sort of trebuchet miniature off the table for closer inspection.

It seems difficult for Ornstein to pull his focus away from whatever new strategy he’s working on, though he does so regardless, if for no other reason than to stop you from touching his things. “Not something to be played with,” he grumbles at you, glaring so openly that even his lion’s helm seems to mirror it. “So put it down, and… fold your arms or something.” His heedance returns to the table before him. “Or better yet, go and stand in the corner.”

“You’d like for me to stand and stare at a corner all night?” you question with growing annoyance. Not that you were ever overfond of him, but you're really starting to _dislike_ this golden captain.

And he seems as equally displeased by you. “You’re being paid for it, are you not?” he questions with little interest. “So go, scurry to your corner, little harlot, and take your unfounded complaints with you.”

“I will not _scurry_ anywhere,” you assure him with a narrowing gaze, folding your arms in a show of protest. “And as for your dolls and your toys–”

“This is a _war table,_ ” his growl is quick to rectify.

You shrug, eying a few of the other pieces on the board while replacing the one you’re ‘not to play with’ back where you found it. “And yet it’s scattered in what looks like a child’s playthings to me.”

“I wouldn’t expect someone with as little understanding of the world as you to comprehend the purpose or worth of such an instrument.”

His contempt for you draws an equally barbed scowl of your own, though in his disregard he likely doesn’t even notice. “Do you mean to dub me as a _simpleton,_ my Lord?”

“Interpret how you like,” he muses shortly, which is answer enough.

Okay - he was aggravating from the very beginning, sure - but now he’s getting under your skin a bit. “I believe I interpret well enough,” you grumble at him, trying not to openly fume. “And I must admit, I’ve perhaps never met a fouler, more ill-mannered knight as you in all my life. So congratulations on making such an impression, you giant, golden kitten.”

He glances down at you, his red plume waving as if weightless as he does. “I’d like to say you’ve had an equally profound effect on me, though I fear your existence will fade away into oblivion the second you rid me of your aggravating presence.” His gaze steels over yours as your brows crease in wordless indignation. “I look forward to forgetting even the semblance of a memory regarding you when you finally swagger off into the night.”

If you had hackles they’d surely be raising. And really, you’re normally quite good at smoothing over your annoyance with patrons. You’re even quite good at using both their and your annoyance as a sort of weapon in situations like this. It’s likely the reason you’ve been slapped a time or two more than most of Jordana’s other girls in the past - you can push people’s buttons with infuriating ease, should you feel so inclined, all while keeping your own buttons under careful lock and key. 

But this _particular fucking patron_ has you bristling and openly _glaring_ at him, and he seems as privy to your buttons as you are to his. 

You really don’t like that. 

“Is that so?” your question holds a sharpened edge, and your mind seeks for the best way to not only press his buttons into the ground, but to fucking annihilate them. “Well, I best make sure you _never forget me,_ then.” 

You pluck one of his wood-carved playthings off the table, barely resisting the urge to simply throw it at his stupid lion’s head. But that would spoil things, and invoke his immediate wrath - you mean to draw this out.

“Put that down,” he demands at once, just as the miniature dragon slips from your fingers, and your mouth forms a little _‘uh oh’_ of surprise as it clatters loudly against the wood floor, all while you blink at him like a demure little lamb. Tension clings to the following silence as the toy topples and finally ceases scittering about.

“Oops,” you gently muse into his stiff silence. 

With a delicate shrug, you grab up another piece from the table to hold your attention next; this one a sculpted silver knight, and you practically _feel_ the air convulse and electrify with Ornstein’s rising annoyance as your fingers lightly curl around it.

It's like he knows what you’re up to, even though you’re fairly certain you put on a pretty convincing show of playing dumb. “I will not stand idly by as you make a mockery of–”

Well _whatever_ it is he won’t stand idly by for is interrupted by the raucous clatter of a second ‘war piece’ (it’s a fucking toy) tumbling from your fingers. 

“Forgive me, my Lord,” your eyes are glittering, meekly shining moons, and you bat your lashes a few times at him for added effect; all before allowing yourself the smallest of candy-coated smiles, and you flutter a few lofty fingers as you muse, “My simple-minded whore’s fingers are oh so _slippery_ this evening.”

For a moment he simply stares, and the tension clouding off his stiff shoulders is nearly suffocating. And then, he motions you forward with a single, crooked finger, like you’re some unruly dog he must reprimand. “Come here,” he demands, and the gravel of his lowered growl stands every hair along your neck on end.

You fight not to audibly gulp at whatever tries to claw its way up your throat in response to such a voice. Perhaps you shouldn’t have goaded on someone such as him.

But it’s far too late for any such hindsight now; and he isn’t having your resistance, either. He motions again, just as methodically. “Come _here,_ ” he repeats, the order hardened with an undercurrent of warning.

To disobey a captain of Lord Gwyn is not an option, especially for someone as lowly and dispensable as you, and regardless of how your every instinct trembles for you to do exactly the opposite of ‘come here’. So, slowly, you force yourself to obey his order, walking toward him and around the bend of the table. Your eyes waver with whatever apprehension you can’t hide away, but you refuse to look away from him; even when his oversized hand takes a solid hold of your neck, though you do gasp and blink far too quickly with the effort to regain your splintering composure.

You know someone of his size and strength could easily tear out your throat without a second thought, so his hold is surprisingly gentle with this in mind, though its firmness is also a very unsubtle warning. “I told you not to disturb my efforts here, did I not?”

He waits for you to respond, and though you struggle not to seem frightened by him in the slightest, it still takes a few moments for you to muster actual words past your foreboding. “Yes,” you mutter at last, trying not to glare too openly at him. But even without the glare, your efforts so far to lose your head tonight are quite impressive.

“So you _did_ hear me, then,” he broods with sarcasm, and your dumb, snarky self can’t keep your eyes from rolling.

He doesn’t like that - _shockingly_ \- and his fingers tighten around your throat a bit in response. You do your best not to let any alarm show on your spiteful face. 

“You’ve clearly a lack of discipline,” he remarks, his unblinking eyes of gold boring down at you.

You attempt to flash him a cheeky smirk, though in your present state it’s probably safe to say you muster up more of a cheeky grimace. “I hardly know what you’re talking about.”

He scoffs. “You’ve a clever tongue and a foolish heart.”

“I thought I was a mere simpleton?”

“You’re a wayward brat is what you are,” he growls. “And you will collect my war pieces before replacing them each exactly where you found them, all before ridding my tent of your maddening presence. Is that understood?”

It’s understood, alright; just not preferable if you still wish to be paid. Though perhaps it's best to get away with an empty purse and a head still on one’s shoulders, especially seeing as how the dragonslayer seems sooner to kill you than bed you at this point. 

But your tongue is indeed clever, and quicker than your better judgement. “And if I don’t?”

His hand shifts just slightly round your neck; just enough to remind you he could tear through it at a moment’s notice. “Then I will bend you over my knee and spank you not unlike I would an insolent, disobedient child, for surely you are no better than such a punishment warrants.”

The image has you scoffing. Like he would ever actually debase himself in doing so. A knight of Gwyn spanking a whore? What a ridiculous notion in and of itself, and you mean to call his bluff. “Perhaps I might prefer that.”

Your slight amusement with the matter fades instantly away with the weight of his removed hand, and you blink up at the metallic sheen of his lion’s gaze towering over you. “Very well. Then bend over.”

His lowered voice is firm, and he continues to stare down at you without another word, as if waiting for you to obey him. And once you finally manage to wrestle back your bewilderment of this fact, you glance between him and the table beside you with a little hook of apprehension in your brow. “You mean for me to bend over the table?”

He doesn’t respond, even as you continue shifting your apprehensive gaze between his lofty form and that of the shoulder-height table in uncertainty. But, eventually, the growing tension surrounding the both of you wiggles its way through the fractures in your resolve, and it's enough to make you reach out and attempt to pull yourself up and over the table’s edge before Ornstein loses any more of his patience with you.

To do so has you feeling like a scrambling child, as you’re far too short to actually succeed in the task. You gasp as Ornstein’s hands find your waist, hoisting you up so that your legs dangle off the tableside, and you suck in a few suddenly nervous breaths. Okay, this is actually happening, then.

“I don’t think this is–”

The sharp crack of his palm striking your bent and presented backside whips through the air and drives all other words from your lips immediately as you cry out in pain, your ass stinging with the abrupt force of his gauntlet.

Once you choke back whatever other alarmed and pained noises such a slap inspires, you twist a startled glare over one shoulder. “That actually _hurt!_ ”

“Perhaps you’ve missed the point of your punishment,” Ornstein replies casually enough, though his tone suggests a bit of hidden amusement. He doesn't wait before spanking you harshly again, and you yelp before turning quickly away from him, so he can’t witness his stinging effect on you.

Though he seems to be aware of it anyway, and the bastard actually chuckles as he readies his next strike. The warmth of his gloved palm smooths over the curve of your backside as he does, like he’s contemplating the best place to rain down further judgement upon. “I thought you preferred this to actually cleaning up your tantrum-made messes?”

You fight not to glare back at him again, choosing to fume face-forward instead. “I had little idea you actually meant to–”

A third slap reverberates around the room and rattles you with its bite, and your words tumble into a cry to contain it. Your fingers curl of their own accord as you gradually recover your sulking glower. “Do you mean to cut short my every–”

The shrill, sharp smack on your ass steals your words away again. “Yes,” he muses, a grin in his voice. 

_Fine, then,_ you inwardly brood. _I just won’t speak!_ And though he can’t steal your words away anymore, it barely makes you feel any more victorious, and whatever pride you think you’ve salvaged is slowly chipped away as your body jostles under the weight of his repeatedly punitive palm.

He continues in spanking you, and his every lashing rips a painful, startled keen from your chest as he does. After the sixth or seventh time of hearing it, his strikes draw a little more carefully, his movements taking their time as his large hand brushes over your curved, flushing skin. At one point he even seems to consider flipping up your dress in order to better punish your pink-tinged cheeks, and though he doesn’t, and it’s likely you simply misread the motion suggesting it, you find that you’re actually a bit disappointed to not have your bare ass on display to him - and that is as annoying and impossibly aggravating to you as it is overwhelmingly flustering. You don’t want this bastard to have any kind of effect on you, and especially not _that_ kind of effect, and especially not while he’s _spanking you repeatedly and without mercy._

He drives one last yelp from you, before his palm smooths over your stinging backside, likely in some kind of sick-minded revelry (or so you tell yourself, anyway), delighting in being the callous, heartless bastard he is and in the pain he’s given you (it’s likely enough, in any case, and you’re more or less certain of it), all probably while twisted mirth lights upon his devil’s face (that’s definitely what his face is doing under that mask - what a _bastard_ ); though your every willful persuasion to hate him falters when his fingers gently flex into your flesh, like he wants a handful of you to hold and play with (okay, now you _like_ him all of a sudden? Get yourself together - have you no shame?!).

And you don’t want to want him, but your back arches into his touch despite this. The stinging flesh he’s punished you with seems to have awoken something that burns far brighter than any hatred you cling to, and some irrational part of you wants him to keep you bent over this table and fuck you until the table splinters and breaks with how forcefully he drives you against it.

But he doesn’t, nor does he seem inclined to. In fact, his hand nearly rips away from you as you lean into him, as if your sudden show of desire burns his flesh like heated iron. You’re left like a fool, arching up into nothing, before you’re suddenly being lifted up by your waist and flipped around to sit at the edge of the table, facing him as he stares rigidly down at you. 

His hands slip off your sides, curling in on themselves as he regards you in a few moments of terse silence. “Now go and get my pieces,” he demands.

You stare up at him for what feels like forever, draped in a shroud of heavy silence that hangs over the entire room. And then, slowly, without removing your careful gaze from his unblinking and likely seething one, you reach out blindly beside you to swat at whatever other pieces your hand manages to run into, sending them toppling and spiraling to the ground - and from the sound of it, you succeed in knocking off quite a few of them.

This is normally where you’d say ‘oops’ again and bat your lashes, but you’re far too senselessly enraptured, and far too sensibly frightened, to do anything but stare up at him in a meek sort of apprehension. 

He’s quick to make you cry out, grabbing the back of your neck to reproach you as whatever war pieces you’ve fumbled off the table come to a clinking and clattering halt across the floor at his feet. And though his fingers dig into you enough to make you choke back a gasp, he’s perhaps too enraged by your insolence to utter a response, and he glares down at you in silence. It’s likely he simply means to pop your head off like the cork from a stubborn, idiotic bottle of wine without wasting another word on you. And though you’ve definitely provoked him, it’s in such a way that his free hand takes hold of one of your calves, tugging you toward him and a bit closer to the edge of the table, enough so he can step between your unthinking, parting thighs.

You suck in a breath when his armor bumps between your legs, and you search his golden lion’s eyes for something you couldn’t possibly hope to find in their sculpted shape. Your heart beats like a heavy drum as his hand on your calf snakes slowly up your leg. It slips along your thigh, brushing upward until his hand is under your skirt, where his golden fingertips trail along the inner crease of your thigh. You barely suppress a shiver as he fingers along the band of your panties, soaked through with your inexplicable longing for him. And you bite your lip to keep from whimpering as he does, but even _that_ gives away how you yearn for his touch, and his low growl in response lets you know this. 

His gold-steeled fingertips brush aside the thin fabric separating him from touching you, and their chill melts against your slick, heated skin as his fingers slip along your folds, gently teasing up and down their crease until you bite your lip so harshly it nearly bleeds. Your attempts to stifle any of the whimpers he seems intent on you making breaks completely when his fingers find your clit, and your thighs tremble helplessly as you cave to the pleasure of it. You’re putty in his hands, your legs widening for him, and he takes this as an invitation to speed and vary the pace at which he strokes his metallic fingerpads over you, his other hand tightening around the back of your neck as he does. 

You’re not sure if he means to torture, punish, or fuck you for disobeying him, but can no longer question it. You give in to his massaging fingertips completely, and grab onto his armored forearm bridged from where he grips your neck to keep from reeling backward or off the table. Your fingers grip into him as your breathing quickens into needy little huffs, and you curl your lips into his forearm seeking to stifle them against his armor.

Whatever his intentions, the sounds you make while his fingers carry you to another plane of existence have him thrumming low in the back of his throat with a sort of rising hunger. And soon he pulls his arm away from your grip in order to tug your waist closer still against him, all before withdrawing his teasing fingers from your slickness in order to reach with both hands to pluck off his lion’s helm. And it’s not like you expected _any_ of this - whatever _this_ is - but you definitely did not expect to see the face of the dragonslayer, and you’re so distracted by his doing so that you nearly fall off the table in surprise alone.

He must see the startlement on your face, and his amusement with it is nothing more than a throaty chuckle, his movements to remove his helm otherwise unperturbed by your reaction. Long, dark hair slips down past his stone-cut jaw as it raises off him, falling in liquid waves like mahogany wine down and across his chest. A few scars flick across one high cheekbone, and his eyes catch the candlelight surrounding you like two pools of gold-spun amber, their light capturing your gaze as you gape up at him. And despite his undeniable masculinity, his lips are as curved and sensual as his gentle swells of crimson hair, and you feel the irresistible need to find out whether or not they're as soft as they appear.

Lucky for you, he seems keen on showing you. His helm is abandoned on the table in haphazard abandon at the same moment you grab his tapered waist, and soon his hands find your hips so he can keep you anchored tightly against him as he leans down to sink his lips into yours. And damn if they aren’t even more delectable than you’d anticipated. You sigh against them as you fall into their warmth without a moment’s hesitation.

And though his lips are undoubtedly soft, they’re also deft and devouring, and they coax with unsubtle demanding for your lips to part for him, so that his tongue can delve and lick inside you. His kiss deepens with yearning, urging your own desire to meet his, and as it does he laps up and swallows every muffled sound you make against his mouth.

He’s as lost to some unthinking impulse of need as you are, and as you kiss him with more and more desperation he guides you into falling back onto the table, one heavy knee lifted to it’s edge so he can bow over you as your twisting, pressing tongues continue their burning dalliance. His hands explore your simple, green gown, seeking as if to tear it right off you. Wood-carved war pieces tip and wobble and fly off the table around your quickly tangling bodies as your legs wrap around him, your thighs scraping carelessly over the sharpened scales and edges of his golden armor. One of the little wooden miniatures, carved to the likeness of the dragonslayer himself, watches and wobbles in objection with each violent motion of the table, as if shaking its head in objection to such a disrespectful and lewd display that you and its full-size counterpart are making. 

You’re desperate to feel this towering man on top of you, and one hand winds its way beneath the curtain of chain dangling between his calf-length tassets to this end. And when you finally succeed in finding the stiff ridge of his erection, pressed with longing against the leather trapping it, you’re rewarded with a husky moan that vibrates through his entire body and against your lips. It’s the first noise you’ve heard him make that isn’t some sort of a growl, and it is - _without a doubt_ \- the most enticing and compelling sound you’ve ever heard. You’re greedy for more, and your fingers seek to slip past his leathers in your desperation to hear whatever other sounds you might inspire in the lion knight, yet you can’t quite manage it; his armor is an infuriating and tricky thing to navigate, and whoever crafted it should be commended for their artistry before immediately horsewhipped for making you wait to hear Ornstein moan again for even a single second longer.

You nearly whine when he pulls his mouth from yours just slightly. “Go and wait for me on the bed,” he demands against your lips, and you try to kiss him again instead.

He chuckles, but doesn’t relent, pressing you back down to the table and holding you there a moment as he growls, “Now. And you best not be wearing anything when I come to find you, lest you leave this place once I'm through with you in nothing but tattered rags.”

He eases off of you before lifting you down and off the table by your waist, plopping you onto the floor beside him. And as he lets go of you, your knees wobble a bit with how lightheaded your insidious want for this Lord has made you. 

You turn to hurry away before he can see you blushing to this fact, though as you do his voice is swift to call after you, “Perhaps you didn’t hear me.”

Your retreating steps slow, and you glance back at him, blinking enough to give away your confusion. 

His eyes are like crude-cut amber, swallowing the flickering of the surrounding candlelight as he mutters, “I told you to remove your clothing. And you will do so now.”

A fluttering of nerves batters your insides, and yet all he’s done is tell you to remove your clothing - it’s not like you’ve never done that before. You’re not used to being so easily affected by someone, and it’s as aggravating as it is sublime. “You’d like to watch?” you seek to clarify, fighting to keep the collected cool-and-calm in your voice as you regard him.

“I’m afraid I insist,” he returns just as evenly. 

You subconsciously bat away the butterflies in your stomach. “I’m a bit shy, my Lord.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

You can't stop a little grin from curling. “Can I trust your eyes not to stray from mine?”

“You expect me to deny myself the sight of you?”

“Well…” you muse faintly, before offering up the smallest of shrugs. “If you don’t think yourself able to meet such a challenge...”

You’re pressing his buttons again, quite handily in fact, and are unsurprised when he mutters, “Then I accept.”

Trying not to appear too pleased with yourself, though you fear your smirk verges on fox-like, you slip your fingers under the thin, emerald strap resting on one shoulder. You don’t mean to make this little game easy on him; if you must be so easily flustered by his mere presence, then you endeavor to make him just as tortured as you are. 

“Very well,” you muse, slipping one shoulder bare. His gaze doesn’t waver, hinged closely to yours as you take your time to gently finger the opposite strap, as if brushing it off your skin is a task requiring careful consideration. 

You slide it off the curve of your shoulder, your eyes smoldering in an attempt to sway him as you shimmy enough for your dress to sink down your arms, enough so that you can hook a few playful fingers over its straps to slowly peel the dress down and off you.

Ornstein’s jaw clenches as your breasts meet the candlelight, but he otherwise remains steadfast in his gaze - vexingly so, in fact - though his efforts appear somewhat more strained as you rock your hips so that the garment slips away from your curves, falling off of you and into an emerald pile on the floor.

Still, he’s doing a rather good job in keeping his eyes from roaming your near nakedness. Perhaps it's wise you didn’t bet anything other than your pride on this game.

Really the only thing left to slip out of at this point is your scant panties, and you run one finger under their band before gradually slipping them off the ridges of your hips, all while keeping a close eye on him. And yet he still holds your gaze, even as your undergarments slip down your thighs and to your ankles, and you step out of them while tossing the garment carelessly aside with a few pointed toes.

 _Damn_ , you were sure that last move would break him.

He smirks, victorious in your little game, despite how clenched his jaw is upon suffering through the finish line. “Go along, then,” he orders you to his bed, but you can’t just let him win like that.

So you draw toward him, instead, and smile a bit when his eyes at last flitter to the bounce of your naked breasts. And you find you barely even have to draw him down to kiss you, because he’s already stooping down, pulling you toward him by your waist and guiding your lips to his. He kisses you fervently and with so much raw, barely restrained hunger that you gasp in surprise against him. 

“Go,” he breaths against your lips, though his mouth swallows you up again in objection. He kisses you a moment longer before pulling away once more. “ _Now_.”

And, feeling _much_ more triumphant in your efforts to fluster him, you give his spellbound gaze a little half-grin before sauntering off to the dragonslayer’s bed, and you can feel the heat of gaze trailing after you all the while.

Ornstein’s bed is something of an interim furnishing, something made and unmade through the exodus of battle, yet still large and regal enough to berth the captain to the firstborn prince, and it’s not long after scrambling atop it that you hear Ornstein’s armor sounding in its approach behind you.

Settling yourself in what you know to be a rather sultry kneel, your back perfectly arched, you turn to cast him a vixen’s glance over one bare shoulder, only to immediately choke back a sudden unraveling of alarm upon seeing him wringing a length of cord between his giant hands.

He chuckles at how quickly your attempts at eroticism crumble. “Um…” you blink a few times, eying the ropes. 

“Yes?” he muses, a bit blasé in his consideration.

Which only serves to rankle your already electrified nerves. “That better be for tying the entrance of the tent closed.”

Amusement rumbles like a dark wave through him, and he stands at the foot of the bed while it glints with hardened light from his gold-speckled eyes, watching you like a prowling, handsome predator. “You look surprised. Did you believe your punishment to be over?”

“I…” you trail off, biting at your lip a bit. 

_Yes,_ you want to say, but you swallow thickly instead. 

His smile is steady, slow to unfurl, and laced with a certain pleasure upon seeing you so easily tongue-tied. And since when are _you_ tongue-tied? “Lay on your stomach.”

And though a part of you wants to see where he’s going with this, your alarum is a bit more persuasive. “I don’t think–”

“Shall I string up your mouth as well as your wrists?”

Falling into a reluctant silence, your eyelids lower as you flash him a pout, though you still turn around and sink onto your stomach as ordered.

You hear the gentle laughter harbored in his chest from behind you, and then the sound of leather scraping over itself and unlacing. You suspect he’s freeing that likely giant and lovely cock of his, and are so tempted to turn around and catch a glimpse of the thing - but the whip singing forth from him pulling tight the lengths of cord he brought with him changes your mind before you do, and has you twisting forward again, blinking rapidly as you do.

“You look quite appealing like this,” you hear him say, sounding closer now. “Obedience suits you. As does a lack of clothing. Now put your hands forward, toward the headboard.”

There are posts at either side of said headboard, and you glance between them while apprehension twists your stomach into knots. Submitting to being tied up by this Lord would leave you quite without a means of escape or defense should the need suddenly arise, and yet his dominance over you has you dripping with warmth despite yourself already, and your wrists reach for the beams of the headboard even while you defiantly mumble, “I don’t think this amount of punishment is necessary, I hardly did a single thing to offend you; merely displaced a few wooden toys.”

“I’ll decide when you’ve had enough,” Ornstein assures. His weight sinks into the mattress behind you, before he brings his armored thighs to rest upon your legs, and you fail to hold back a little gasp when he takes one of your wrists. 

He very nearly laughs, though he does not pause in his task to tie both your hands to the headboard in front of you. “Are you so nervous to be disciplined?” he muses as he works, amused by your reaction.

A stubborn huff escapes you, and yet your backside arches into him ever so subtly. Once he’s finished tying you, his hands slide down to appreciate the gesture; gloved fingers splaying over your hips before pulling you further up and into him.

“Eager, are we?” he purrs, removing his hands from you only for as long as it takes for him to remove one gauntlet. His bared fingers find your growing wetness and a growling hum runs through him in approval. “I think you like being punished.”

“Think whatever you like,” you mutter, blushing despite yourself. You’re quite happy he can’t see your glowing face in that moment.

His hands roam over your ass, flexing into the softness of your flesh, and even _that_ drives a little breathy sound from you.

“I’m going to take you however I like,” he growls. “Is this acceptable?”

“You seek my permission?” you wonder aloud, unable to keep the surprise from your voice. Though both your confusion and your words choke back as his thumb drags a wet line from your lower lips to the puckered skin of quite _another_ entrance.

“I won’t ask again,” he muses, his thumb teasing your rim as you gasp and clutch at the bedsheets without thinking. “And I won’t repeat myself. So tell me now.”

It’s not like you’ve never been taken in such a way before, though it’s a rare occurrence - but if what you felt of his girth back on the war table is any indication, your ass has never been fucked or stretched to such an extent.

You want to say no; just as much as you want to say yes. And indecision leaves you silent. At least until his patient thumb rubs over your rear entrance again, rolling circles of teasing slickness over it, and when you whimper and arch into his touch it seems to be answer enough for him.

He grabs your waist, propping you up on your knees without warning, ripping a startled inhale from you that you stifle against the mattress he bends you into. His forefinger replaces the pressure of his thumb, dipping between your folds to lubricate itself before returning to draw soft circles over the puckered flesh bent in presentation to him. The pressure he applies is so light you wonder if he simply means to tease and torment you all night, but it’s playful patterns are still rather quick to unravel you, making you squirm against him. He teases you until your breath is strained and wetness drips down your thighs, and then the length of his finger slips slowly inside your tight entrance.

You stifle a moan as he sinks himself into you until his knuckles brush against your skin, your body tensing at the intrusion. 

His free hand smooths under your stomach, keeping you on your knees for him as his finger withdraws a bit, before pressing fully into you again. You try to keep your composure, but the burning pleasure slowly spreading from his movements is taking its toll.

“Are you trying not to enjoy this?” He wonders as he watches you suppress a moan against the bedsheets. He doesn’t wait for you to respond before slipping a second finger into your tight heat, and it's enough to make you cry out and claw at the mattress. “I’m afraid such attempts are futile, seeing as how I can feel you throbbing around my fingers. And I’ll have none of your reticence. I’d strip it of you entirely - such is your punishment.” His fingers start moving in and out of you in steady, painstaking movements, spreading wetness throughout your tight passageway, and your fists curl into the blankets with the effort not to mewl like a bitch in heat with how much you're enjoying it, despite how his every motion ignites your nerves with aching fire.

And it would seem that your attempts at composure are indeed futile, because more and more strangled noises drive out of you despite your efforts to control them, growing with yearning as he slowly quickens his thrusting fingers. He hums his satisfaction to hear every sound you make while writhing against him, pressing back to meet his thrusts. “Such fetching sounds you make. Though I still suspect you’re holding back.”

Suddenly his fingers withdraw from your aching entrance, and his armor presses cold against the back of your thighs. “We can’t have that,” he muses, and you try not to gasp when you feel his rock-hard length run itself over your dripping folds.

Gods, you want him inside you; his cock teasing and wetting itself in your slickness sends shockwaves of need crashing through you.

“ _Please fuck me_ ,” you hear yourself moan past your slipping composure, unable to keep your knees from spreading for him, and you instantly blush as he chuckles in response.

“Better,” he purrs, sliding his cock along you until he’s soaked with the wetness he’s inspired. The heat of his flushed tip slides upward then, dragging to the teased, puckered entrance of your ass, and it feels _much_ too large to be able to slip inside. 

You bite back a startled, strangled noise; one torn between apprehension and desire as you question the sanity of this entire situation. Your wrists tug a bit at their bindings in your trepidation, and if he notices this he chooses to ignore it. His hands don’t hesitate to roam over the curves of your ass, propping you further up and into him as you press your nervous breathing into the mattress. “Though I feel you can give me more than that.”

One hand reaches around you to tease your clit, the pads of his fingers stroking you until you tremble and moan, and that’s when the head of his cock forces you open to him. Its girth slips past the impossible tightness of your rim, and you grip the sheets until your knuckles are white with how much it hurts. The pain burns its way to your core, where its flames take hold of your pleasure and quickly consume you in a blaze of searing ecstasy. You cry out sharply, helpless in your ability to control it.

“Relax,” he breathes, pausing for a moment as his fingers continue massaging your slick, swollen bud. 

Though a deep groan rolls through him when your muscles constrict around his length, instead, and the hand steadying your waist digs into you a bit. “You’ll need to stop that if you wish to leave me with any form of self restraint. It's been some time since I've done this, and you're very…" he hesitates, his fingers gripping tightly against you. "You've a way with me.”

But you can’t help it - you stifle a pleasured, agonized moan into the blankets you cling to, and can feel the rim of your ass contracting around him in its simultaneous need to expel his monstrous size and welcome more of him inside. 

He growls like a beast before thrusting a few more inches into your heat, the slickness borrowed from your cunt aiding in how deeply he manages to do so. And when you cry out again he can’t seem to help himself from holding back any longer. 

He drags further into you, slipping more of his length past your quivering entrance as he forces his size inside the heat of your clenching walls. An elongated moan catches in his chest as he sinks himself at last fully inside you, until his length is buried and stretching you so completely you can hardly breathe.

It’s a torturous, gripping pleasure that engulfs you, and it drives broken moans from your chest as he begins pulling in and out of you, slowly at first, though he loses himself inside you the more you whimper for him, and his dragging motions steadily rise in their urgency. 

He pulls your hips into his every thrust until the curves of your ass bounce off his armor with each movement. It’s almost more painful than you can bear, yet you can’t even think to stop him, nor do you actually want to, despite how far past he is from any attempt at easing you into his size. 

He ruts into you with more and more demanding, his control fracturing under the mounting pressure of how pleasing your body feels sheathing him like this. And as he continues sinking into your tightness you can do nothing but twist against your restraints and take everything he gives you. 

He pulls you up and slightly into him so his body can bow over yours, your bound hands pressing heavily into the bed as you arch into him. His muscles tense and his breathing strains, becoming ragged as it blows hot against your shoulder, and he mouths along your sweat-salted flesh, lapping up your taste as he continues driving into you. One hand steadies himself over you, his armor-chilled arm pressed into the mattress beside your own, while the other continues its ministrations between your legs. 

Both your breaths catch high in your throats when he slips a few fingers inside the slickness of your cunt, and they begin curling and thrusting into you, all while his punishing cock continues driving into your rear passageway without restraint. 

He thrusts into both your entrances with an equal, rising tempo, and your entire body shudders and is driven completely mad by the pleasure of it. He renders you helpless to do anything but whimper and press into him for more. 

You can feel how his length throbs as he nears his end, and when he moans for you it's enough to drive you over the edge he’s dragged you toward.

You cry out uncontrollably as euphoria nearly makes you blind, and surely the entire encampment can hear the wanton moans erupting from your chest but you can’t be bothered to care. You hear Ornstein's rasp groaning rise to meet yours, the sounds melting into your skin as his teeth rake across the crook of your neck. His driving movements don’t relent as they propel your orgasm past its limits, teetering on the edge of his own bliss.

His strokes lengthen, pulling and dragging into both your quivering entrances in feverish need, before his rising pace stumbles into something erratic and the tension in him finally snaps. 

He gasps against your shoulder as he pulls you into his every assault, and the sinking weight of his shuddering body on top of yours nearly crushes you, as all he can seem to focus on is driving into your convulsing heat with more and more desperation. Your rim spasms over his length with every crest of pleasure he continues driving from you, and you dig your fingers further into the blankets as you feel his heat pulsing deep inside you, filling you with every ounce of pleasure with his every haggard thrust.

He spills himself completely, heat dripping from his length and down the back of your thighs by the time his movements begin to slow. His breathing is rasp, and for a moment he simply holds you to him as he seeks to steady himself, mindful enough to remove his weight from further crushing you as he reclaims his place in reality. He withdraws his length from you with a lazy groan he mutes against your bare shoulder.

You can barely even see straight as you chase after your own breath, and you're unsuccessful in catching it before the dragonslayer's hand is gently easing around your jaw, carefully tilting your face to his just enough so he can kiss you. 

It's a slow and sensuous kiss, like that between gentle lovers; completely at odds with the thorough and rough fucking he's just given you. And when he's kissed you until you’re a weak and needy puddle, he pulls away enough to smirk against your lips, his golden eyes hooded as they flicker over your eyes and the shape of your lips. 

And then he pulls himself away from you rather abruptly, like he has urgent business to attend to, standing beside the bed as he refastens and remedies his disheveled appearance.

Your gaze twists over one shoulder to watch him, your wrists pulling against their restraints as you do, and he watches you a moment longer with a subdued, lowered smile before turning away, as if to leave you there entirely.

Your brows form an immediate knot of disbelief. “W-wait!” you call with confusion and indignance, and his steps pause for just a moment.

You’re starting to remember all the things you hate about this man, and that smile of his is as swift a reminder as it is a bane to your very existence. “Yes?”

In answer to his apparent lack of interest, your wrists tug a few times against their bindings. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” you glare over at him.

A contemplative hum accompanies his somewhat thoughtful expression. “Oh, I see,” he muses at last. “You think we’re finished here.” Slow amusement claims him as you stare in rising indignation. “We aren’t. Does this satisfy you?”

“Satisfy me?” you practically yell at him. You jerk against your bindings again. “Untie me this instant!”

But your demands only seem to stoke his mild amusement with the matter. “Now why would I do that?” he wonders aloud, like he can’t possibly comprehend a reason.

You can hardly believe his audacity. He insults you, ties you up, fucks your ass, then leaves you stranded to his bed while laughing to your face? He's a complete and utter _bastard,_ and you pull harshly against your restraints as your glare verges on actual flame. “This isn’t funny!”

His smile tells you he begs to differ.

“ _Untie me!_ ”

“You’re mine for the evening, are you not?” he questions with a mere hint of interest.

You have to blink a few times at that. “Well…” you nearly agree, though you shake yourself from actually doing so, “No, absolutely not - our contract is quite finished!”

“Ah.” His grin is so subtle you almost don’t pick up on it. And then he comes toward you again, crawling over the bed just enough to capture your jaw and guide your gaze to his, and his damned, mesmerizing eyes succeed in quieting you as you blink up at him. “Perhaps we might renegotiate our contract, then.”

The ‘no’ you want to spit at him lodges itself in your throat instead, and he smiles at whatever strangled, stubborn, desirous expression contorts your features, before slipping away again and heading back toward the war room.

Your ability to think clearly reclaims you as he does, and you cry after him, "Wait! Where are you going? You can't just leave me like this!"

When he brushes back into view again, he's wearing his lion's helm once more, and it's ruby-red plume dances across the nape of his neck with his every movement. "It would appear that I can."

“At the very least untie me, you… you bastard!” you dare yell at him.

The sudden silence he regards you in makes you immediately regret insulting him. 

“Hush,” he murmurs at length, and you don’t dare defy his cautious tone. One could hear the smallest of pins drop within the tension of that room. “I’ll untie you when it suits me, little minx. And in the meantime, your continued theatrics will earn you nothing more than a gag, for I can’t have any of my men stumbling upon you like this.” His eyes seem to flicker over your nakedness, lingering on the way your muscles tense in protest. “You’re practically gift wrapped.”

He turns to leave again - and, what’s more, he seems intent to leave you alone in this tent entirely - and you unclench your jaw enough to cry out again, “Wait!”

An impatient sigh meets such a request, but still, he stops long enough to glance back at you. “Yes?”

You nibble at the plush of your lip in hesitation, not wanting to sound as desperate or needy as the words lingering behind your tongue will surely make you appear. But they tumble out anyway, “Please don’t leave me alone in here like this. Just…” you voice lowers with self-loathing, but still you beg, “stay.”

His golden, lion’s face is forever unchanging, and he regards you for a few moments in the silence that follows. “Worry not, little one,” he murmurs at last, his voice giving away a certain depth of fondness. It takes you completely off guard, and your heart seems to pull in on itself to hear it. “I’ll be back soon enough to share that bed with you.”

And then he turns, and his crimson plume and the golden glint of his armor brushes past the tent’s entrance before disappearing into the night.

You jerk against your restraints in your objection, but remain otherwise in obedient silence, save to huff with the nervous, angry energy that being imprisoned in such a state leaves you in. Still, the thought of Ornstein returning to this bed when he’s finished with whatever business cannot wait till morning sends a flush up your cheeks - such is his inexplicable effect on you. And so you kick about the blankets as best you can in order to some way shuffle them on top of you. You barely succeed in the task, but you’re warm enough to curl up somewhat and wait for him. And when he finally does return and at last unties you, you may just find out what kind of punishment he subjects you to for slapping him in retaliation for leaving you here like this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> The Pursuer  
> Giant Crab  
> Abyss Watchers  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Skeleton Bowling Ball  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Yhorm the Giant  
> Greirat  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Curse-Rotted Greatwood  
> Patches & Lautrec wombo combo  
> Man-eater Mildred  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lorian, Elder Prince  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Elizabeth the Mushroom  
> Crystal Lizard gang bang  
> Solaire of Astora  
> Oswald of Carim  
> Four Kings
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


	13. Lautrec & Patches ( 1 of 3 )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lautrec and Patches fuck you until you love it ( part 1/3 )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lautrec & Patches got you in that wombo combo
> 
> Of course heed the tags, but, more specifically: rape, M/M/F, non-con to con, praise kink, worship kink, possessive kink, Patches saying ‘wiggly’ kink, i should probably be embarrassed by how much smut is in this kink
> 
> And, okay guys… I got a little weird with this. Too weird even? Question mark? There was a line from Lautrec’s wiki that really grabbed me. “Lautrec forsook everything because he believes in Fina’s love for him, which could either mean that Lautrec is delusional, or that the goddess truly loves him deeply and personally”. 
> 
> This is what happens when the little golden boy is delusional, and his love is unrequited.

**♡Knight Lautrec & Trusty Patches… this can’t end well♡**

* * *

  
  


A shimmer of golden light catches your attention before anything else does. Something at the cliff’s edge of Firelink, glimmering with the incandescence of a coin barely hidden by silt at the bottom of a sunny stream. 

Odd; there wasn’t anything quite so brilliant lingering at the far reaches of the place before.

You stride right past the bonfire as you approach it, uncaring that your estus has long been drained, or that your weapon sits in ill repair. You want to know what that shiny thing is. Perhaps you’re not unlike a curious goldfish in this regard.

And as you peer down at the golden object, the golden object peers back at you. It even speaks in greeting.

“Well,” it says. “Look at you. You’ve finally made it.”

Knight Lautrec. You probably should have suspected the glimmer of light to be him. You’d never seen such garishly decorated golden armor in all your life, after all; not before freeing the man from that cell in the Undead Parish. Letting loose his sardonic broodings and that eye-catching armor of his, mantled with spindles like that of a crown upon his brow, and embraced by the arms of his goddess.

He truly is an odd one. But more or less harmless, it seems.

He’s a bit slouched in the way he leisures himself upon the grass, but he steadily rights himself upon seeing your approach, his armor sounding with his movements.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice is husky, playful, and yet something about its cleverness doesn’t quite sit right.

It makes your skin crawl, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps you should have left him in that cell.

Oh, what are you thinking - you couldn’t possibly have left the poor man locked up like that, regardless of his broodings.

You eye him a bit, standing atop the curved stairway leading down toward the cliffside below. “Waiting?” you question, skepticism staying your steps. “For what purpose have I kept you waiting, sir Lautrec?”

The knight of Carim puts on an act of mock suffering. “Do you not remember?” he wishes to know, a gauntlet carefully pressed to his apparently breaking heart. “Are my words and my person so forgettable to you, dear girl?”

“What?” Your head swivels. “No - _no,_ I just...” 

You trail off, rubbing the back of your neck, casting your gaze aside, like that will somehow make this less embarrassing for you. You really have no idea what he’s going on about, but you don’t want to offend him by admitting it. The result is you being anxiously tongue-tied.

“Oh?” he seems to smile, his words almost lazy with his amusement. “Then do tell me. For what possible reason would I be waiting for you to grace me with your exquisite presence, love?”

You stare, soundless, gaping like the goldfish you apparently are. 

_Shit… I don’t remember._ How could you? Clearing that chapel below his imprisonment left you in quite a state before you’d even stumbled upon him.

His laughter is somewhat cruel. “How you wound me,” he drawls. “It simply will not do, though…” he chuckles a bit more before offering a slight, complacent gesture, “I’ll forgive such an offense for now. And I’ll do you one better. I’ll even tell you what it is you really ought to have remembered.”

“Lautrec,” you begin a bit sheepishly, for it seems you’ve unintentionally offended the knight. 

He cuts off your apologies with a little wave. “Don’t fret, love - I know exactly how you can make it up to me. But we’ll get to that.” He seems to smirk. “For now, allow me to simply illuminate what it is that flighty little mind of yours has so quickly forgotten.”

He takes a single step toward you. “I have something for you,” he purrs invitingly. “A gift. For freeing me when last we met.”

He holds out his hand to you, and being the curious creature that you are, you can’t help but wander forward and down the steps as you stare at it. 

But his palm is empty - there’s nothing there. So… what the hell is he doing?

“Um,” your words draw dubiously, and you lift a questioning brow, trying not to sound rude as you venture, “Is my reward a firm handshake, then, sir Lautrec?”

“Heavens no,” his voice holds a grin, and a wolfish edge curves his every inflection. “Do you honestly think so little of me to believe I’d present such a worthless reward?”

“I…” your cheeks flush pink. “Well I didn’t–”

His cackling derails your train of thought. 

“You’re lucky I’m a patient man. When it suits me, anyway.” His eyes seem to roam over you - in fact, he barely even hides the way in which he openly appraises you. “I find that most things concerning you do.”

Your arms fold themselves as a kind of shield against his hungry gaze without really thinking.

He notes this, as well as how your cheeks blossom with pink despite yourself. His laughter lowers to a throaty hum, like he finds the response delectable. “I daresay you enjoy this little fact.”

You’re not sure _what_ you think of this ‘little fact’, other than you’re incredibly flustered, and you wish he’d just get to the damn point already so you can get the hell out of here. “I’m… I’m very busy, Lautrec,” you stammer, pulling your arms more snuggly about yourself. “So if you could… I really ought to…”

“Such impatience,” he muses - smirking, curious - watching your every sentence fall flat as your nerves stifle every attempt to complete them under the weight of his coquettish advances. “And after receiving so much of my own patience, too - freely given. What an ill-mannered creature you are. I ought to teach you how to properly use that tongue of yours.” 

He’s enjoying teasing these flustered reactions from you _far_ too much, and if he keeps at it your face may literally burn off with the blushing heat of your own awkward embarrassment.

“Though I must admit,” he smirks. “I’m a little eager to get things rolling as well, so to speak, so allow me to get to the point.” He nods to the short sword sheathed at your hip. “It’s hard not to notice many aspects of your being… More specifically in this instance, however; that sorry excuse for a sword there. And as your reward for freeing me, I mean to make it whole for you, and then some.”

You glance at the weapon at your waist; even the hilt of it is riddled in scars. “I… that’s quite alright,” you say, taking a small step backward, not really knowing why. “Though I appreciate the gesture - but I can repair it well enough on my own at a bonfire.”

“It would be rather rude to decline,” Lautrec slowly broods. “You’d so hate to be rude, wouldn’t you?” 

He bites back a chuckle at your hesitance to further offend him, the sound of it rumbling low in his broad chest. “You really must accept. And besides the substances I might apply to its blade, I’ve also a smithing ember for you. I’ll present it just as soon as I’ve finished with your sword. Surely the glow of such a gift is enough to captivate your interest?”

Oh, you’re captivated, alright - you perked up the second you heard the word ‘ember’ leave his lips. There’s no way you’re turning down a new smithing ember. In fact, you’re so infatuated with this handsome new reward he’s offering that you unsheath your sword from its scabbard without much in the way of second thoughts on the matter.

“Thank you, Lautrec,” you muster, pushing away your unease in order to smile. You offer him your weapon, though you can’t help but argue for the sake of your pride as you do, “though it’s not _such_ a sorry excuse for a sword. It still resembles one enough to do its duty.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he chuckles, taking the hilt from your outstretched fingers. “Which is exactly why I’m ridding you of the thing.”

And then he tosses your sword back and over one shoulder; sends it sailing off and over the cliff face behind him without a moment’s hesitation.

Shock claims your ability to immediately respond as you watch the abyss swallow your weapon whole. It’s almost like you’re watching it happen in slow motion - it's there, and then it’s gone.

“Wh- what are you _doing?!”_ you shriek at last, rushing forward like there’s actually any hope in grabbing it back somehow.

Lautrec slinks into your path as you do, and though you attempt to dig your heels into the grass to avoid barreling right into him, he has other aims in mind. He catches your hips and pulls you into his person so harshly that you nearly choke; his armor rattling as your body slams against his.

“L-Lautrec–” you wheeze, your fury over him tossing aside your sword quickly strangled out by your rising confusion and alarm. “What are you–”

“Hush, sweet goddess,” he breathes, keeping you tight against him. One arm coils firm around the small of your back, while the other takes your hand in his; gently, almost, but less so as you try to yank your hand away.

He won’t allow it, and you watch with incomprehension as he guides your resistant hand toward his face, smoothing your touch over his curved, golden visor, like he wants you to pet him. And he purrs like a predator as you do, leaning into your palm for more. 

“You've had more than enough of my patience, and I’ll have none of your objections. I’ve waited for far too long already, and how I’ve _longed_ for this.” He breathes the words as though they’ve pulled him from the depths of drowning. “I’ve thought of little else since I first saw you; for I knew the moment I did there would be none other for me.”

“Lautrec…” you barely get out, but he ignores you, his sentiments steamrolling your own.

“You eclipse Fina herself, and you _feel_ me,” his desperate words are hot against you, spilling from the scores of his helm as he strokes your fingertips over his golden cheek. “Like she never did. I will never again serve someone whom I cannot _feel,_ so soft, so sweetly… you, and you alone–”

“Get the hell _off_ of me!” you finally shout, your voice shaking as badly as your knees. But his grip around you is vice-like, and you’re not going anywhere.

“Such hostility, my love,” the man nearly pouts. “Allow me to show you just how badly you _don’t_ want me off you.” 

His much larger hand releases your own, and you tear away from his face immediately, before staring in bewilderment at the golden gauntlet now held before your lips, hovering there, waiting.

"Be a dear and bite down on this for a moment."

Your gawking transforms into rapid, nonplussed blinking. " _What?!"_

"I can't very well slip out of it without a little help from you, darling," he muses. "Not while holding you so deliciously close. And I'm disinclined to allow you to stray from me a single inch." 

You don’t move a muscle to obey him, and his tone steels itself as he adds, "Don't be rude. Do as I ask."

But you still don’t budge, and his hold on you tightens, constricting around you like a gold-armored python, enough to make you gasp.

"I don't like repeating myself, darling."

Your head is swimming with how quickly your pulse hammers in your ears, but, slowly, you bite down on the thumb of his damned gauntlet, and he wiggles his way out of it.

"Such a dear," he praises, chuckling as you spit out his plated glove. It tumbles to the ground, and you glare up at him with enough vehemence to choke a man. 

He doesn’t seem to like that. “If you keep looking at me like that, perhaps I'll have to punish you, after all.” 

He cups your cheek with his newly bared hand, studying you as if to memorize your every detail, and for some reason doing so makes him suck in a hushed breath. “The things I wish to do to you, darling…” he breathes. "Why, they'd surely make you do more than blush."

You jerk away from his touch, half expecting him to squeeze you again like a chastening snake, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even lower his hand. He simply moves it into your vision again, loosely wagging one finger as he does, like he’s showing you something.

The dazzle of a golden ring catches the light from that finger, and you can’t help but stare at it.

"This is your _real_ reward for freeing me, sweet girl. Go ahead and take it."

His husky tone is threaded with anticipation, and it makes you really not want to do whatever it is he’s asking, even if it's simply removing a ring. But with a lack of better options, hesitantly, you do, sliding it off his finger. And the second the golden band leaves his skin, the thing fractures and falls to jagged pieces.

You gasp, dropping the ring's cracked remnants in alarm, worried that he might punish you for breaking it.

And though his fingers flex into your waist, he doesn't seem overly perturbed by this. In fact it breaking seems to nearly be the point. 

He takes your hand again, his fingers curling over your own so he can drag your knuckles across his armored cheek, reveling in your touch. “Give yourself to me, my lady,” he rasps. “I am yours, and I would worship you completely, would that you allow it, would that you give yourself to me in return.” His hold on your grows harsh with need, his fingers gripping down on your own as he touches his brow to yours. “I _need_ you. Every second you are not mine I **_burn_**.”

“I…” you choke, your lungs constricting as the slow claws of panic sink like ice into your very marrow. 

_I need to get the hell out of here!_

You don’t even know what to say to this utter madman, and you can’t break away from his hold on you no matter how you try. Your head trembles in little wobbles of determent as you blink fearfully up at him. “I’m not… I’m not yours,” you stammer, “I’m not anyone's! Now let go of me!”

His forehead lifts from yours, and the tilt of his face burying into your hand, chasing after your touch, suddenly grows cold and hesitates. 

Slowly, he rights himself until he’s staring straight down at you, and you don’t have to see his face to know that he is _far_ from pleased by your decision to keep trying to run the fuck away from him. 

He’s quiet. For far too long, he’s quiet. 

“You would deny me as your dedicant?” he wonders at last. Resentment sculpts his words into something devoid of warmth. Dangerous.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond before his arm constricts around your waist, pulling so tightly against him you can barely breathe. “I'm afraid I won't allow that,” he murmurs. His hand at your waist digs itself into the softness of your flesh with a growing possession. “I understand, darling. I feel how you tremble to be near me so. You're frightened of what I might give you. Terrified of how much you'll _love it_." His fingers paw into you, and his hand holding yours slips away so that he can cup your cheek. "Hush, darling, it's alright. Give in to it. You'll find it nothing but intoxicating."

"You… you've lost your mind!"

“Oh, far from it,” he attests with rising fervour. “I’ve never had such clarity in all my life.”

You twist your face away from him. “ _Let go of me!_ ”

He chuckles, a throaty and dark sound that vibrates through his entire body, though it isn't exactly amusement that holds him. "I'm starting to take offense to how you reject me so. You wouldn’t even _think_ to deny me if you knew the fervency of my devotion.” He scoops up your face again, his thumb hooked under your jaw to keep you from turning from him a second time. “So I will show you, my new and lovely goddess, for I will not suffer your senseless objections.”

“Get off of me!”

“Though it seems you’ll continue wielding them until I break them from your grasp entirely.” He grips your jaw until you whimper. “And so I will. I’ll do whatever I must to have you. I’ll tear these foolish objections from your lips, until nothing is left save you pleading and begging me for more.”

You try to look away, to push away from him, and his hand squeezes until you cry out and stop.

“I will break you with my worship until not a shred of doubt remains in your heart,” his lowered growl assures you. “I’ll corrupt every perfection of your being. Defile your every consecration until you’re nothing but ruin; rubble and chaos belonging only to me." His fingers slip into your hair at your neck, tightening into a painful fist, forcing your gaze to meet the heat of his own as his growl sinks dark and deep. "I will shatter every piece of you, my lovely, spiteful creature, until every splintered segment _begs_ to be **_mine_** _.”_

You can’t look away, can’t even blink, soundless in your terror as you gape up at him.

Someone clears their throat far too loudly from somewhere behind you, obviously vying for the attention of the room.

" _A-a-ah-hem."_

A little cough - forced as hell - follows the sentiment.

 _"_ Pardon the interruption," a vulpine voice casts over the clearing. "But I couldn't help but overhear your utter nonsense, and I just wanted to clear one teensy tiny thing up before I continue eating up this jaw-dropping performance the two of you are putting on." There’s a bit of laughter, before a smirking, “Bravo, by the way.”

Lautrec’s obsessive gaze tears away from you in order to meet that voice. His entire body tenses against you as his attention settles upon whoever is cackling like a gleeful imp behind you.

"I think I must have missed the first act, so maybe you can clear up a few things before carrying on,” the voice continues. “Weren't you struck stupidly blind by the shimmer of some _other_ goddess? Fina, or whatever her bloody name is? Have you taken to worshipping _mortals_ , then?” 

You know that cunning voice. You know that all-too-mirthful laughter, too, though you can barely twist your face enough to confirm your suspicions.

Patches.

Trusty _fucking_ Patches.

Perched and crouching on the ledge above where Lautrec holds you hostage, a smirk brightening his features. Amusement oozes off of him in thick waves as he meets your gaze, his smile broad and sculpted into knife-like points. 

You haven’t seen that cunning smile since he nearly dumped you off a ledge in the Catacombs, and if you still had a sword, you might actually try to stab his face in the face.

Perhaps he knows this. But even if he doesn’t, he still seems pleased as punch to find you currently snared in a golden, Lautrec-sized trap. 

“Oh, but where are my manners,” he adds with an air of propriety. His smirk gobbles up the sight of you standing there. “Hello deary,” he greets you with that devilish grin. “Fancy seeing you here. And in quite a pickle, no less.”

You twist against Lautrec’s hold on you, but it holds strong - perhaps even fiercer than before, such is Patches’ effect on the golden knight’s flinching, tensing muscles. 

But, really, you had no idea just how desperate you were in that moment until you heard yourself pleading with _Trusty_ fucking _Patches_ to rescue you. 

“Patches,” you waver, eyes owlish, “please, _help_ me!”

He seems surprised for half a second. And then the man actually _giggles_ _-_ grabs hold of his aching stomach and everything. And when he finally eases back on his little bout of being truly tickled, he swipes away an invisible tear from one high cheekbone. “You’re adorable, darling,” he flashes you a gleaming, handsome grin. “You’re also well and truly _fucked_ , caught up with this one, as it were. I mean, I knew he was a bloody basket case, but _heavens,_ ” he laughs a bit more. “And I _would_ help you, _really_ I would _,_ darling, but…” he shrugs. “I just got comfortable, and I don’t really _feel_ like it. And besides… just who do you think I am, anyway? Coming at me with a request like that?" His smirk edges. "Sorry, sweetheart; I’m not whatever knight in shining armor you’re after. And I very much prefer to sit back and watch the show. Especially since things are just starting to get interesting.”

"It's a private viewing, I fear," Lautrec calls to the rogue, his cordiality dripping with sarcastic venom. "So scurry along, you disgusting, oversized rat."

Patches makes a show of gasping. "After all this time, _this_ is how you greet me?" he wonders with an air of scandal.

Lautrec scoffs. "Would you prefer I remove your hide instead, as I promised I would were you to stumble through my path again?" He waits long enough to see something flash past Patches' eyes. "You're being offered a way out of such an end. And I suggest you take it, before I stop being so kind."

"You? _Kind?_ "

"I have my moments."

Lautrec isn’t looking at you; he’s looking at Patches. And since Patches refuses to help you, the only thing you can think to do in order to save yourself is use the distraction of his presence somewhat to your advantage. It’s the only thing you have to work with, and you have a very bad feeling about what may happen should you fail to escape in using it. 

So you grab onto one of the golden spindles of Lautrec’s crown before he notices in time to stop you, yanking his head to the side as if to break it clean off his neck, with so much force he emits a huff of pain. His fingers fall from your hair, and his arm loosens around your waist just a bit. Just enough for you to duck and wriggle away, rewarded one step of freedom before he’s jerking you back and into him by the fabric of your blouse. 

_Fuck–_

“Lautrec _–_ ” you cry out as your back slams into him, your lungs rattling with the impact of it, all while Patches sniggers in the background. 

"This really is quite the thrilling performance,” He cackles. “She nearly got away from you there! You're not losing your touch, are you?"

You choke back a startled gasp as Lautrec's free hand latches itself around your throat, his other arm snaked around your stomach, fitting you to his armored torso as though you were a piece of him.

He bows over your shoulder so he can meet your gaze, his lowered voice blowing warmth from the pinpricks in his curved visor. “I wouldn't try that again if I were you." He leans in a bit, and you can hear the bastard smelling your hair. The realization of it sends an odd, disturbing ripple down your spine. "Just what am I to do with these constant offences of yours…” 

His plated cheek presses against the side of your brow. “We must reclaim our patience, I fear, for a time. Hush, I know," he drags a finger over your lips as if to silence your objections. "I know, you're eager for me to break you, and I promise I won't keep you wanting for long. I’ll ravage and ruin you into a quivering, sobbing mess in a moment, darling. Though it seems I’ll be forced into dealing with an unwanted rodent before I do.”

You try to thrash away from him while screaming, “You’re completely mad! Let me go you vile–”

He smothers your lips, and your muffled, wrathful shrieking against his palm only succeeds in making him rumble with dark amusement.

_This is not good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, I love you all! And just an FYI, I may not be updating weekly anymore because I'm falling behind in other not-dark-souls works in progress, but we'll see :)
> 
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> .¸¸.•*¨*•current requests in the works•*¨*•.¸¸.
> 
> The Pursuer  
> Giant Crab  
> Abyss Watchers  
> Soul of Cinder  
> Skeleton Bowling Ball  
> Orbeck of Vinheim  
> Greirat  
> Mild Mannered Pate  
> Curse-Rotted Greatwood  
> Man-eater Mildred  
> Oscar of Astora  
> Lautrec of Carim  
> Artorias x Ciaran  
> Elizabeth the Mushroom  
> Crystal Lizard gang bang  
> Solaire of Astora
> 
> .¸¸.•*¨*• ♡ •*¨*•.¸¸.


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